The alleyway was cold and dark. There was no sound to be heard other than the distant swoosh of cars passing and the wailing of police cars rushing along the busy roads.

  No one was around to help him...

  In the quiet suburban streets, just outside the towering city of Grossaint, rain came crashing down in sheets as far as the eye could see, causing a mirage-like distortion on the moon. The ice-cold breeze felt like a pure gust of ice.

  The only light in the alleyway was a faint glow from the nearest streetlight. Barely enough to illuminate the body lying in the centre of it.

  Cold and alone, the body y there. The bck trainers, once fresh and clean, were now muddy and wet. The bck jogging bottoms cling to the body’s legs in tight desperation. A bck puffer jacket barely sat on top of the once pristine white shirt, now soaked in a mixture of blood and rain, torn in the chest area where the blood was thickest. Three holes, the size of small pennies, were painted in a dark crimson that carved deep into the body’s chest.

  The face told the story of a man. The defined cheekbones and jawline gave him an athletic appearance. The man's brown eyes were as cold as the silver on his earrings and the chain around his neck. The eyes were once sharp and full of anger, but now, they were rexed. They looked lifeless, but his soul still clung to them as he stared straight up at the night sky, though it was only through a crack separating the two empty buildings beside him.

  His hair was short and brown, the sides were freshly faded, and the fringe was cut straight as a board. It was clear that the man pced heavy emphasis on his appearance.

  The body once had dreams of Monday night lights at Old Trafford. Hearing the roars of the crowd around him as the ball bulged in the back of the net. But the only roars he could hear now were the roaring of thunder.

  Those dreams were once those of Tom o’Clerigh, who y there one arm stretched out limp, the other, tightly clinging to the holes in his chest. His breathing was wet and ragged, each inhale a small, surprised gasp like he couldn’t believe this was how his life was going to end.

  “Fuck”

  He whispered, but more like a gurgle. He giggled once before a choke could be heard, and red spttered on the bottom of his chin.

  “Isn’t this just typical?”

  Beside him, somewhere in the puddle, was his phone. Cracked. Dead. No phone call, no notification.

  Just silence...

  A couple of hours earlier:

  George McCullen’s room was dimly lit by the blue-white glow of his ptop screen. He stretched out on his bed, limp, staring up at the bck ceiling.

  The ft was quiet; Krista was long asleep in the room beside him, and Arjun? Somewhere.

  “You there?”

  He whispered up to the ceiling, as if he was talking through it to the entity beyond. But there was no response, only the faint hum of the ptop replied to his question.

  “You there?”

  He tried again, this time a little louder.

  “You gave me these powers, but you never talk to me when I need you to. What was I given these powers for?”

  The silence continued, stretching out beyond his capacity to care anymore. He shut his ptop and began rubbing his eyes, wasting a little more time before giving in and closing them.

  BECAUSE YOU WANTED THEM.

  George threw himself upright, looking around as if the voice were in the room with him.

  “As if anyone wouldn’t want them.”

  Silence befell the room yet again. It felt like he was going crazy, hearing voices in his head. He gently y himself back down.

  “What do you want from me?”

  NOTHING. KEEP USING YOUR POWER AS YOU SEE FIT. BUILD UP YOUR STRENGTH. YOU WILL KNOW WHEN YOU WILL BE NEEDED.

  How fucking vague.

  “What am I without these powers? What’s the point? If I lost them tomorrow, who would I be?”

  ARE YOU SAYING YOU DON’T WANT THESE POWERS? YOU WANT TO RETURN TO HOW YOU WERE BEFORE?

  George gulped. The voice was right; the powers made him someone he could never be without them. All the people he had helped so far. He couldn’t have done that without the help of those powers.

  DON’T YOU EVER FORGET, GEORGE… YOUR ACTIONS ARE OF YOUR OWN CHOICE.

  The voice faded out. George y there in silence for a long time, staring at the ceiling, pondering what it had said.

  The rain tapped against the window. For George, the night was over, but for others, it was still young. Halfway across the city, just on the outskirts of Grossaint’s centre, were a couple of ds still having fun.

  The Royal Oak stunk of spilt ger, wet coats and the desperation that never fully washed out of the carpet. The ambience was cheap, dim lights of an orange hue that discombobuted the wavy eyes of a drunk observer. Yet the pce had soul and good people. In the background was the bst of the 90s indie rock.

  “Tom-myy! Tom-myy! Tom-myy!”

  The banging of tables synchronised with the chant, as Tom downed the pint in one go.

  Six men were sitting around a table in the corner of the pub, empty gsses piled up on the edge, with even more gsses in front of the men surrounding the table, each with some ger still in them.

  The six men had names and personalities. Connor was leaning back over his chair, head up, ughing straight from his core, face distorted in pleasure as he enjoyed the moment. Ryad followed suit. Danny filmed everything on his phone, just like he always did. Jermaine banged on the table in appuse, and finally, Zion shook his head, grinning.

  “Right...”

  Tom cpped his hands together, getting straight down to business.

  “Who’s getting the tequi in?”

  The table erupted, more drinks flowed, and the table became louder and louder as other bodies started to pile in. But it became too cramped around the table for Tom, so, wanting a change of scenery, he stumbled his way outside, firmly grasping a pint in his hand.

  He looked upon the garden in front of him. An ocean of waving bodies and chatting friends, and among those waves, he spotted Jermaine, talking to two beauties. Tom decided to go and help him out.

  “Hey, hold on...”

  He tapped Jermaine’s shoulder, winking with one eye, the furthest away from the girls so they wouldn’t notice.

  “No way it is you. Bro, you saved my sister from those creeps the other day.”

  A btant lie. Tom was just making Jermaine look good in front of the dies, and it was working. The two women looked at each other, intrigued. Jermaine looked at Tom with a smile on his face. He knew the drill.

  “Yeah, shit, man, how’s she doing? Is she alright?”

  “Yeah, man—”

  “HEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING CHATTING UP MY GIRL!?”

  A dark-skinned man of rge stature called to them from the other side of the garden. On the top of his head was pure skin; he was wearing a rge bck leather jacket with three gold chains under his chin, glistening at Tom as if to say, You’re fucked. He looked like a WWE wrestler, and his walkout anthem was the sound of his stomps as he came marching towards them.

  One of the women came rushing towards him, trying to calm him down, but her pleas fell on deaf ears as he continued his advance towards Tom, of all people.

  Tom hadn’t even been talking to them.

  “Hey, big guy, think you can get away with talking to my girl like that?”

  Tom looked him up and down.

  Yep. Steroids.

  “Listen here, little nuts—”

  Before Tom could even finish what he was going to say, his vision fshed as he was sent to the floor. The cracks of the concrete began fading back into his vision before he looked back up.

  Jermaine was fighting his corner, his face scrunched up in anger as he began shouting at the man. Tom couldn’t hear what he was saying, but before long, the rest of Tom’s gang came storming out, and so did the other man’s.

  What ensued next was a full-out brawl, his men against Tom’s. A small crowd gathered around watching the scene unfold.

  Tom raised himself back up and threw himself at the nearest figure, sending him back. The man turned back around in shock. He had a bck bacva on with a rge bck coat. He looked like he was straight out of some gang of crooks.

  Who were these guys?

  He came flying back towards Tom, and Tom raised his fists to block. The man sent an overhook Tom’s way, so Tom ducked back, causing the wind released from the punch to pass his face, skimming his jaw. Tom leaned forward, swinging at the man’s gut, and he stepped back.

  They continued going back and forth, cttering each other with their fists, before the ndlord came in and split up the fight.

  “You’ve all had enough, get out!”

  So he excimed. Their night was ruined because some douchebag couldn’t keep his girlfriend from talking to other guys. Just one of those “wrong pce, wrong time” situations.

  The rain continued to pour, soaking every piece of clothing on Tom’s body. Even his socks were soaked.

  They all stood around outside the pub looking beat up. Physically as well as mentally, they realised that their night had to be cut short in such disappointing circumstances. They cut their losses, agreeing to meet each other at the same pce after the match.

  They weren’t banned for life, thankfully. No. The pce would lose way too much money were they to move on to another pub.

  The streets ahead of Tom continued to wind as his vision was still whirling from the sheer amount of alcohol flowing in his blood.

  He began to feel the physical effect of the drink as his bdder suddenly began to feel like it was about to burst. Tom scanned his surroundings, weighing up the best pce to go. Somewhere quiet where no one would find him.

  He concluded that an alleyway was the best pce.

  Tom stumbled his way over, just about maintaining his bance after slipping on the wet concrete below his feet. He stood facing the wall, relieving himself. So relieved that he didn’t even notice the shadowy figure at the entrance of the alleyway.

  Tom finished up, pulled up his jogging bottoms and turned to the entrance, ready to continue his walk home.

  He was greeted by the figure.

  The man had a familiar rge bck coat and bacva, with his hands tucked into his pockets. Tom noticed a bulge in one of the pockets. The man was staring at him with anger.

  Why was he angry at Tom?

  The furious creases on the man’s face seemed so familiar to him.

  The man slowly raised his arm from his pocket, wielding a small object in his hand that was pointing at Tom.

  He faced him.

  The rain was pounding. Flowing like waterfalls off the man’s shoulders. The sound of the rain hitting the floor nded like boulders. They sounded just as loud as the sound of Tom’s heart beating out of his chest.

  He didn’t understand what was going on, but he felt a visceral feeling of danger. Something primal.

  The man’s figure occupied the exit of the alleyway.

  A fsh of lightning illuminated the darkness around them before—

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  An overwhelming heat went abze in Tom’s chest.

  His legs felt faint. They could no longer carry his weight, and so he plummeted to the ground. Tom y on his back, staring up at the figure, trying one st time to figure out who it was.

  “Shouldn’t have messed with us, eh?”

  Oh.

  Now he knew.

  It was the guy at the bar. You could just about see the bck eye Tom had given him in the gap of his bacva.

  Tom wanted to give a funny retort, but the burning made his brain go numb.

  The man quickly ran off, leaving Tom alone in the cold, dark alleyway.

  Soaked by the overbearing downpour.

  Tom pced his hand on the burning sensation on his chest. An overwhelming feeling of falling befell him once he felt a hole in his chest.

  The heat began to fade as his vision began to blur in a way that felt different to the way it had before.

  He couldn’t quite see a light, so either they were lying when they talked about the light at the end of the tunnel… or there was still hope.

  “Fuck.”

  Tom whispered, but it came out more like a gurgle. He giggled once before he choked, and his chin suddenly felt warm.

  “Isn’t this just typical?”

  Tom tried to look around to see if his phone was anywhere to be seen.

  It was there.

  In the puddle.

  A mixture of blood and rain surrounds his body. The screen was cracked. Dead.

  There was no call. No notifications.

  Just silence.

  Until—

  LOOK WHAT WE HAVE HERE.

  Just as Tom thought he was about to finally die, a voice pierced through.

  It wasn’t very loud. Wasn’t dramatic.

  It was calm.

  Like a man reading a news report.

  YOU ARE BLEEDING OUT, TOM.

  “Yeah… no shit.”

  Tom’s voice was raspy and quiet. Even that small, humorous retort was hard to release.

  DO YOU WANT TO DIE, TOM?

  The voice was putting what little thought capacity Tom had left to the absolute limit of its capability.

  His life was one of boring, continuous monotony.

  But he didn’t want to die.

  He was a sad, lonely guy working a dead-end job.

  He didn’t want to die.

  Not yet.

  Not until he had achieved something in his life.

  “No.”

  WHAT IF I TOLD YOU THERE WAS A WAY TO STOP THIS? WOULD YOU TAKE IT?

  “Are you joking…? Yes.”

  Within an instant, it felt like va was pouring into Tom’s wounds.

  He began to writhe on the floor, his back lifting off the ground in reaction to the agony in his chest. Smoke began to release from the holes as the muscles began to weave together, and flesh began to knit itself shut.

  TAKE THIS POWER, TOM. TAKE IT AS YOUR OWN. I WILL CALL UPON YOU SOON… UNTIL THEN. USE THIS POWER AS YOU SEE FIT.

  Tom felt alive in a way that he had never felt before.

  He lifted himself upright, and raindrops slipped off him in rivulets.

  He then raised himself to one knee before lifting himself to his feet.

  Tom looked at his hands.

  Small red sparks. Faint but recognisable.

  He couldn’t resist the urge to release a low, rough ugh.

  Tom stepped out of the alleyway, his hands burrowed in his pockets.

  Stepping further and further away from the puddle of blood.

  Stepping into a new era of his life.