Every so often, I wondered if we were ever meant to understand the forces that governed us.

  Maybe we weren’t supposed to be here at all—tampering with powers far beyond our comprehension, bending the rules of nature until they snapped. Or perhaps we were the unintended consequence of someone else’s story—a mistake left to run its course.

  These thoughts churned endlessly in my mind as I lay motionless in that hospital bed, staring at a ceiling I had seen far too many times. My body felt like a crumbling ruin, every joint stiff, every breath labored. Outside the window, the grasslands stretched into infinity, their vibrant greens almost painful in their contrast to the sterile whites and grays of the room. The beauty mocked me, a reminder of a world I once roamed freely, a world now reduced to glimpses through reinforced glass.

  I knew my time there was almost up. I had maybe a day or two left, if that.

  The clock was ticking.

  But, the cruel joke was that once I closed my eyes, I would wake up in a world starting all over again.

  My fingers, skeletal and trembling, inched toward the remote on the bedside table. It took more effort than it should have. I grabbed it, along with my old notebook—the same one I’ve carried since my young days. Its worn cover felt comforting, a connection to a simpler time.

  A press of the remote button shifted the view outside the window, the rolling grasslands dissolve, replaced by a winter wonderland. Snowflakes drift lazily through the air, blanketing a quaint forest cabin surrounded by towering pines. At the same time, the hospital room melted away, its cold sterility giving way to dark wooden beams and the warm glow of a crackling fire. The hummings of machines faded, replaced by the soothing pops and hisses of burning logs.

  This was better. Much better.

  I allowed myself a moment to savor the illusion before turning my attention to the notebook resting on my lap. Its leather cover was worn and frayed, its pages filled with years of careful notes and hastily scrawled warnings for the next cycle. It was my map, my compass, my lifeline—assuming, of course, that everything would continue as it had before, and I wasn’t just some old man spiraling into delusion. My hands shook as I opened it. The effort felt monumental, like lifting a weight I was no longer strong enough to bear. Each page was a recording of lives lived and lost, of failures and fleeting victories.

  I traced the words with my fingers, committing them to memory one last time. I didn’t know why I bothered; the loop always took what it wanted, leaving only fragments behind. Still, the act felt important, like an anchor in a storm.

  This year, I was nearing one hundred and sixty years old in my second cycle. If I added the years of my first life, I was well past two hundred and eighty—an age so absurd it felt almost fictional, even to me.

  As for the reason behind these cycles?

  Despite countless attempts to untangle the mystery, I remained in the half-dark.

  In the end, the answer I’d come up with was both strange and oddly comical: I was caught in a time loop.

  But, despite being trapped in this cycle, I felt certain that I wasn’t the cause of it, nor was the loop somehow centered around me. My meta nature had helped me understand at least that much. The only explanation that made sense was that I was like a small leaf of the right weight and size, unintentionally swept up in a storm, drifting along a sideline current, carried by forces far beyond my control or influence.

  The existence of such a time anomaly wasn't entirely far-fetched, not in a world where humans could bend reality itself to their will.

  Strange as it was, it seemed almost mundane compared to some of the things I'd witnessed.

  I read until the pages blurred before my weary eyes, until I could no longer tell whether I was memorizing the words or simply staring at them. Morning had melted into evening, and I knew with quiet certainty that when I closed my eyes this time, they wouldn't open again.

  There was no fear in that realization. No regret. Just a calm acceptance, like slipping into a familiar rhythm. Looking back, I felt a quiet pride in this second life. I had done what I’d set out to do. I’d fulfilled the regrets of my first existence, tasted wealth, lived comfortably, and accomplished my wildest dreams. I had even dedicated years to researching the loop itself, though the answers I found only deepened the mystery. But the thought of starting over again, of living a third life, filled me with a kind of dread that no amount of resolve could banish. It felt like torture—an endless cycle of beginnings and endings, of fleeting connections and inevitable losses.

  At some point, the notebook slipped from my hand, its weightless fall unnoticed. My heartbeat slowed, its rhythm softening to match the quiet stillness of my thoughts.

  For the last time, I watch the snow fall outside, its silent beauty a cruel reminder of everything I’ve lost.

  The world dimed, and a single thought lingered in my fading consciousness: What if this time, it’s different?

  The next moment, the universe didn't so much tilt as it shattered, reality splintering like a broken mirror. One moment, I was an old man sinking into the warmth of a cozy bed, watching snowflakes dance outside my cabin window, and the next—

  Pain. Sharp and immediate. My knees hit concrete with enough force to send shockwaves through my new bones. The impact drove the air from my lungs in a harsh gasp. My palms slapped against rough pavement, tiny pieces of gravel biting into soft flesh that hadn't known calluses for years. I stayed there, sprawled on the sidewalk, trying to remember how to breathe. The sensory assault was overwhelming. A nearby bakery wafted the scent of fresh croissants and coffee—so different from the antiseptic sterility I'd known just moments ago that it made my head spin. The rumble of morning traffic vibrated through the concrete beneath my palms. Somewhere, a car horn blared, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch.

  "Hey! Are you okay?"

  The voice came from above, feminine and young, tinged with concern. I could see her school uniform shoes at the edge of my vision—polished brown leather. A scuff mark on the left toe. White socks pulled up precisely to mid-calf. But lifting my head to see more felt like trying to move a mountain with a feather.

  “Should I call an ambulance?" She shifted her weight, "You look really pale."

  "No," I managed to croak out. The voice that emerged was higher than I expected, lacking the gravelly undertones of age I'd grown accustomed to. It felt foreign in my throat, like trying on someone else's clothes. "I'm fine."

  But 'fine' was a lie so blatant it almost made me laugh. My mind was a whirlpool of conflicting sensations: phantom aches from joints that were now young and supple, muscle memory from a body that had lived centuries trying to reconcile itself with fresh limbs that had barely known two decades. The morning air bit at my exposed skin with an intensity I'd forgotten young bodies could feel.

  I stayed there, pressed against the earth, letting the dew from the nearby grass seep into my uniform pants. The moisture was cold, real, grounding. Around me, the city was waking up—the click of heels on pavement, the distant wail of a train whistle. Each sound felt impossibly crisp, as if my young ears were determined to make up for years of aging-induced hearing loss all at once.

  The girl hadn't left. Her shadow still fell across my shoulders, and I could smell her light floral perfume, "Are you sure you're okay? You really don't look well."

  With effort, I forced myself to look up at her. She was maybe sixteen or seventeen, with concerned brown eyes and a neat braids draped over her shoulders. The sight of her modern school uniform, identical to the ones I'd seen daily in my previous lives, was another confirmation of what I'd already suspected: I was back. Again.

  "Thank you," I said, my voice steadier now though it still felt wrong in my mouth. "Just got dizzy for a moment. I'll be fine."

  This wasn't a meta-ability's influence—I'd experienced enough of those over two centuries to know the difference. Meta-powers left traces, like ripples in a pond or static in the air. They had a signature, a subtle wrongness that you learned to recognize after decades of exposure. But this? This was something else entirely. The sensations were too sharp, too real, too consistent. The morning chill raising goosebumps on my arms, the weight of a school bag I hadn't carried in lifetimes pressing against my shoulder blade, the subtle buzz of teenage hormones coursing through veins that felt simultaneously foreign and intimately familiar.

  I pushed myself to my feet, movements careful. My new legs felt like they were made of rubber, but they held. The girl took half a step forward, hands raised slightly as if ready to catch me if I fell again. The gesture was so genuinely concerning it made me feel I had arrived in another world.

  “I can wait with you, my school doesn’t start until eight," she offered, adjusting her bag strap nervously. "At least until you're steady."

  I shook my head, "I appreciate it, but I'll be fine. Really." The words came out smoother now, my voice beginning to feel less like a borrowed instrument.

  The girl lingered for a moment longer before continuing on her way, glancing back over her shoulder until she disappeared around a corner.

  The bus stop was nearby. I made my way there with small, careful steps, one hand trailing along the cool metal railing. Each movement was a study in rediscovery: muscles responding too quickly, reflexes too sharp, everything just slightly off from what I'd grown accustomed to.

  Time loop. The words echoed in my thoughts. Not an illusion, not a dream, not even a meta-power gone wrong.

  The sheer absurdity of it almost made me laugh.

  I saw another young girl near the bus stop absentmindedly changing her hair color from brown to blonde and back again. Next to her, an elderly man touched a wilting flower in a sidewalk planter, his meta-nature extending its life by perhaps a few hours at most.

  The bus arrived with a pneumatic hiss and a whiff of diesel, right on schedule. I climbed aboard, between pushing and pulling of people getting in and out. It was packed with morning commuters—office workers in pressed suits clutching briefcases and paper coffee cups, one of them repeatedly tapping his watch to speed up time around it by microseconds as if that would make him less late.

  Students with bags filled with books and dreams, one young boy quietly making his pencil write by itself though his handwriting was worse than if he'd just used his hand. A middle-aged woman near the front used her meta-nature to slightly dampen the sounds around her seat, creating a bubble of imperfect silence that probably gave her more headaches than peace. These were the meta-humans of our age—masters of minor inconveniences.

  I found a seat at the back, pressed against the window. Then I noticed a young office worker outside hovering unsteadily by a third-floor window, struggling to clean it with his weak levitation ability—probably trying to save money on professional cleaners. He wobbled precariously, his meta-nature barely able to keep him airborne, while his colleague leaned out the window with a safety harness, ready to grab him if his power failed.

  The cool glass against my forehead provided a small comfort as the city slid past outside. A green flash caught my eye as someone teleported between bus stops—only to appear winded and sweating, having saved maybe thirty seconds of walking at the cost of their morning's energy. Two rows ahead, a salaryman with dark circles under his eyes continuously touched his coffee cup, his meta-nature heating it back up every few minutes despite the coffee already being bitter from overheating.

  Everything looked newer than I remembered—buildings I'd watched crumble and be rebuilt were still in their prime, advertisements I'd seen become vintage collectibles glowed with fresh neon. The morning sun caught on glass and steel, creating patterns of light and shadow that spread across my lap.

  A laugh bubbled up in my throat, but I swallowed it down. The last thing I needed was to look like a madman on public transport. The irony wasn't lost on me—here I was, over two centuries old, crammed into a high school student's body, riding a bus to academy classes I'd attended twice before. If this wasn't madness, it was doing a damn good impression of it.

  The bus swayed gently as it navigated morning traffic, and I closed my eyes, letting the motion rock me like a cradle. I had time to think, to plan. But for now, I just needed to breathe, to accept this impossible reality once again. The weight of accumulated memories pressed against my consciousness—two lifetimes of experiences trying to slot themselves into a brain that felt simultaneously too young and impossibly ancient.

  Then, a sudden screech of metal jerked me from my thoughts.

  The world shattered with an explosion of metal and glass. One moment I was deep in thoughts, and the next—destruction.

  A hulking body tore through the bus like a meteor, ripping the vehicle in half at the middle. The screech of shearing metal drowned out the screams of passengers as both halves spun in opposite directions. The front section cartwheeled down the street while our back half rolled toward the sidewalk.

  My ears rang with a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else. The world swam in and out of focus, darkness creeping at the edges of my vision. I tried to move but my limbs felt disconnected, like they belonged to someone else. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth—I'd bitten my tongue during the impact.

  Gradually, sound started filtering back in. First came the hiss of ruptured hydraulics, then the tinkle of falling glass. Pain. Then the screams. God, the screams.

  I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. Papers fluttered around me like broken butterflies. Someone's phone was still playing music, the cheerful tune obscene against the backdrop of tragedy. A man's arm hung limply from beneath a crushed seat, his meta-nature still faithfully heating his now-shattered coffee cup. It took me nearly a minute to get my bearings, each second marked by the thundering of my heart. When I could finally push myself up to my knees, the full scope of the carnage became clear. The middle section of the bus, where the impact had occurred, was a nightmare of twisted metal and... worse things. Those who had been standing or sitting there hadn't stood a chance. The floor was slick with blood and gore, I forced my eyes away, focusing instead on the survivors.

  Movement caught my eye. Through the jagged tear where the bus had split, I saw the figure who had hit us.

  The titan-woman was shaking herself like a dog, spatters of red flying from her enlarged form as she cursed loudly. "Disgusting... get it off... filthy..." Her gray skin was stained blood red, and I realized with a lurch that it wasn't her blood she was trying to shake off: intestines and gore that was wrapping her.

  "Focus," I muttered to myself, pushing down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. Two centuries of life had shown me horror before, but this body's reactions were still fresh, still innocent. I forced myself to concentrate on what I could control. Near me, a young woman was struggling with her seatbelt, her meta-nature that had seemed so frivolous earlier—making small objects glow in the dark—now useless in her panic. An elderly man was pinned by a displaced seat, conscious but dazed. These were people I could help.

  Momentarily, my eyes focused back to the woman standing in the middle of the street, but the world 'woman' seemed like an inadequate description. Her meta-nature had transformed her into something more akin to a titan. She was easily twelve feet tall, her body bulging with muscles that seemed to grow larger by the second. Her skin had taken on a grayish tint, and her business suit strained against her expanding form.

  "Come out and face me, you coward!" her voice boomed across the street, deep and distorted by her transformation.

  A shadow passed overhead, followed by a sound like rushing wind. A figure in a high-tech suit descended, metallic vulture wings catching the morning light. He landed on a lamppost with impossible grace, his costume a mix of sleek carbon fiber and exposed circuitry. A mask covered the upper half of his face, with glowing red lenses that seemed to analyze everything they saw.

  "Now, now, Sarah," the winged man's voice carried a mocking tone. "Is this really appropriate behavior for a former accountant?"

  The titan—Sarah, apparently—roared and grabbed a nearby parked car. "You stole everything from me!"

  While they exchanged words, I focused back on the bus. I moved quickly, my old experience guiding my actions. The seat was heavy, but adrenaline and young muscles made it manageable.

  "Can you walk?" I asked the girl. She nodded, tears streaking her face.

  "Watch out!" someone screamed.

  I looked up just in time to see the car Sarah had grabbed sailing through the air—not toward her winged opponent, but directly at the bus. Before I could move, the vulture-suited man made a gesture. The car suddenly changed direction, as if pulled by an invisible force, missing us by inches and crashing into a storefront.

  I helped the girl toward the gaping hole in the bus's side. We needed to clear the area before it became a war zone.

  The winged man—I really needed to learn these people's names if I was going to file a complaint about my ruined morning—swooped down from his perch. He raised both hands, and suddenly Sarah stumbled forward, as if pulled by invisible ropes. But she dug her massive feet into the asphalt, creating deep gouges in the road.

  "Your little tricks won't work anymore, Marcus!" she growled, growing even larger. She had to be at least fifteen feet tall now.

  Marcus. Good to know.

  I was helping the injured coffee-salaryman out of the bus when Sarah charged. Marcus waited until the last second before activating his power, but instead of pushing or pulling her directly, he affected a piece of the broken bus behind her. The metal fragment shot forward, wrapping around her legs. She stumbled, her momentum carrying her forward into a face-plant that left a crater in the street.

  "Five seconds," I muttered to myself, counting. That's how long until he could use his power again. A critical weakness.

  Sarah recovered quickly, ripping through the metal like tissue paper. She grabbed a streetlight, tearing it from its foundation with a shower of sparks. Marcus was already airborne, his mechanical wings carrying him just out of reach. But I noticed his suit was smoking slightly—the wings weren't meant for prolonged flight.

  More injured people needed help, but the fighting was getting closer to the bus. Sarah's rampage had already damaged three buildings, and Marcus's redirected debris wasn't helping. Many people would die or be heavily injured if this continued.

  I looked at my watch. I was already late for my first day back at the academy.

  "Wonderful," I sighed, cracking my neck. I was really not expecting this kind of scene the moment I travelled back. What a bad luck!

  This was also an anomaly.Thus, I wanted to stay out of it, to be a bystander like everyone else.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  But apparently, old habits die hard. Besides, these two idiots had ruined my clothes. And dry cleaning wasn't cheap on a student's budget.

  Hopefully, Sups and City Protectors will be here in a couple of minutes to stop this madness.

  I helped the young man, then the elderly man trapped under the seat.

  As I moved, ripples of violet and crimson danced at the edges of my vision—danger patterns spreading like ink in water.

  My meta altered my perception.

  "Get to the convenience store," I told them, pointing to a shop across the street where the air shimmered with stable greens. "The freezer section will have the strongest walls."

  A shadow passed overhead, and I looked up to see the man in the vulture suit—Marcus—diving toward the titan-woman. The space around him writhed with amber threads, while dark red pooled beneath the titan's feet. Their collision point blazed white in my vision.

  "Is that all you've got?" The titan-woman sneered, now nearly twenty feet tall. She grabbed a nearby motorcycle, and I watched purple ripples trace its trajectory before she even threw it.

  Marcus gestured sharply with one hand. The motorcycle stopped mid-air, then shot back at her with doubled speed. But threads of gold had already shown me her response—her massive fist connecting with the bike, sending pieces of machinery exploding in all directions. I ducked before the side mirror even began its path past my head.

  The titan-woman charged forward, each step cracking the asphalt. The air around Marcus sparkled with decision points. He chose one laced with blue success, waiting until the last moment before activating his power. Instead of affecting her directly, he pulled on a fire hydrant behind her.

  Smart. Her increased mass made her harder to manipulate.

  But she was adapting. The moment the hydrant hit her back, she rolled with the impact, launching into a spinning kick. Marcus barely dodged, his wings sparking as ribbons of red danger flared around them.

  Marcus dropped to the ground, his wings folding. A web of interconnected colors showed me the trap before it sprung. The titan rushed him, exactly as he'd planned. At the last second, he pushed off the ground, launching himself over her while simultaneously pulling down on her shoulders.

  But something was wrong. The colors around his left wing were fracturing, breaking apart into chaotic patterns. His landing was awkward, the damaged wing sparking and twitching. The suit was failing.

  The titan-woman noticed too. She rose slowly, and the air around her blazed with malevolent purpose. "What's wrong, Marcus? Running out of juice?"

  Most of the survivors were clear, but the fight was about to escalate. The colors told me that much—threading through the air in increasingly violent patterns. The titan-woman grew larger, her head nearly reaching the second story windows, each of which reflected their own warning signs.

  "You know what the funny thing is?" she said, advancing on him. "After you stole my company's research, after you took everything I'd worked for... I actually have to thank you." She flexed her massive hands, dark purple rippling around them. "The stress triggered this wonderful upgrade in my original useless meta. Now I can literally crush you."

  Great. A revenge story. Just what my morning needed.

  I glanced at my ruined clothes, then at my watch. First period was definitely a lost cause. Probably second too.

  The titan-woman's foot came down next to me, sending tremors through the ground. A chunk of debris from her stomp rolled to a stop by my feet—the bus's fare collection box. I picked it up, testing its weight.

  Physics was always more reliable than meta-nature anyway.

  I took careful aim and threw the metal box as hard as I could. It sailed through the air, striking the titan-woman's ear with a satisfying clang. Not enough to hurt her, but more than enough to get her attention.

  She turned, her massive face contorting with rage as she spotted me. "Did you just throw something at me?"

  "No," I said, "It was probably the other idiot standing in the middle of your temper tantrum."

  "You..." She raised a fist the size of a small car. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

  "Someone who really needs to work on anger management?"

  She roared and swung. I was already moving, rolling between her legs as her fist cratered the spot where I'd been standing. Behind her, Marcus struggled with his suit. He needed time.

  "Over here!" I shouted, grabbing a piece of twisted bus railing.

  The titan spun with surprising speed for her size, but her movements painted bright trails in my vision before she made them. I ducked another wild swing, then sprinted toward a narrow alley where the colors condensed into a promising knot of opportunity.

  "Stand still, you little—" she reached for me, but I was already counting the pulses of Marcus's power cooldown, watching the colors cycle from purple to green.

  "Now would be good!" I called out

  The world spun in a kaleidoscope of warning colors as I hurtled through the air. A flash of deep blue caught my eye—a shop awning directly in my path. Not ideal, but better than concrete. I twisted my body, aiming for the fabric. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but the awning's tear followed a path of pale gold, depositing me roughly on a cafe table below. Coffee cups shattered around me as I rolled to my feet, ignoring the complaints of what felt like every muscle in my body. Behind me, the titan-woman's struggles sent tremors through the ground, her shoulders still wedged tight in the narrow alley.

  "I'll crush you both!" she roared, her attempts to grow larger only wedging her more firmly between the buildings. Cracks spider-webbed up the brick walls around her.

  Marcus landed nearby, his damaged wing now hanging uselessly. "Any other bright ideas?"

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the patterns in the air shifted dramatically. "Move!"

  We both dove in opposite directions as the titan-woman's fist punched through the building wall beside us, showering the street with bricks and mortar. She might be stuck, but she could still reach us through the buildings themselves.

  "She's going to bring down the whole block," Marcus said, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  I scanned the chaos around us, looking for something, anything— There. A fire truck had arrived on the scene, its lights painting the morning air in strobing red.

  "Can you still manage one good push?" I asked Marcus, nodding toward the truck.

  "Maybe. But we'll only get one shot."

  "That's all we need." I turned toward the stuck titan.

  The angrier she got, the more predictable her patterns became.

  "First the bus," she snarled, "now the buildings. I'll tear down this whole city to get to you!"

  She punched through another wall, but I was already moving. Marcus hadn't moved yet—good. He was waiting for my signal.

  "All this property damage," I called out, keeping her attention on me. "No wonder your company wanted to get rid of you. Terrible for the insurance premiums!"

  The air around her exploded with violent crimson as she lost the last shreds of her control. She braced her legs against the buildings holding her, muscles bulging as she prepared to simply force her way free, no matter how many structures she had to demolish.

  "Now!"

  Marcus gestured with everything he had left. The fire truck's water cannon twisted, pulled by his power, and unleashed its full pressure directly into the titan-woman's face. The impact snapped her head back, water filling her mouth as she gasped in surprise. But Marcus wasn't done. With his power's last gasp, he pulled on her leg just as she was off-balance. Already stressed by her own actions, the walls of the alley finally gave way. She tumbled backward, shrinking involuntarily as her concentration broke.

  By the time she hit the ground, she was almost back to normal size, coughing and sputtering.

  "You..." she pushed herself to her hands and knees, water dripping from her hair. "You'll pay for—"

  I wasn't done yet.

  I didn’t have time nor did I care enough to listen to some random villain threats.

  I turned sharply, crossing the distance to Marcus before he could process what was happening. His power was still recharging—the familiar purple pulse hadn't returned yet. The first punch caught him square in the jaw, and I felt something crack beneath my knuckles. The second followed before he could even register the first.

  "Wait—" he managed before my third strike silenced him. "Why?"

  I grabbed his collar, driving my knee into his face. Blood sprayed across the cracked pavement as his nose shattered. His tech-enhanced wings twitched uselessly, trying to fly but I slammed him down, the metal screeching against concrete. I brought my heel down hard on the left wing's joint, then the right. The sound of breaking carbon fiber and twisting metal mixed with his choked gasps.

  "What are you—" the titan-woman started, her voice shaking.

  I turned to her, still standing on Marcus's broken wings. His face was barely recognizable now, a mess of blood and broken teeth. She tried to scramble backward, but her muscles were still weak from the forced transformation.

  "You know," I said, my voice eerily calm even to my own ears, "I was going to let the sups handle this." I stepped off Marcus, moving toward her with measured steps. "But then I thought about the people on that bus. The ones who'll never go home to their families."

  I reached her face and crouched down, the colors around us deepening to an almost black indigo. "To be honest, I don't care enough if you killed everybody here, but it's sure a good excuse for me to beat you for ruining my mood."

  She tried to grow, but managed only a few inches before her exhaustion betrayed her. "Stay back—"

  "The funny thing about meta-abilities," I continued, closing the distance, "is that everyone thinks they make them special. Powerful." My fingers curled into a fist. "They forget that sometimes, the old ways work just fine."

  Her eyes widened, fear replacing confusion. She saw something in my expression that made her try to scramble backward, but her exhausted muscles wouldn't respond fast enough.

  The first hit caught her squarely in the jaw. Nothing enhanced, no meta-abilities—just the raw impact of knuckles against flesh. Her head snapped to the side, blood spraying from her split lip. Before she could recover, I grabbed her hair, yanking her head back to face me.

  "Please," she gasped between hits, "I surrender—"

  "You see," I continued conversationally, as if we were discussing the weather, "I was actually looking forward to a quiet first day." Another hit, this one breaking her nose with a satisfying crunch. "Maybe doze through some lectures, grab lunch, and make some new friends - the usual boring stuff."

  She tried to speak, but I cut her off with a knee to her sternum. The sound she made was particularly unpleasant.

  "Instead," I drove my elbow into her temple, watching her vision unfocus, "I had to help people. Play hero. Get my clothes dirty." Each complaint was punctuated with another strike. "Do you know how poor I am? And how much dry cleaning costs on a student budget?"

  Behind me, Marcus groaned. The colors showed he was trying to reach for something—probably a hidden weapon. Without looking, I picked up a piece of broken wing and threw it. The wet thunk and sudden silence told me I'd hit my mark. I didn't need superpowers to handle villains of these caliber.

  "The worst part is," I turned back to the woman, whose face was now a mess of blood and rapidly swelling tissue, "I'll probably be late for class. And you know what they say about first impressions."

  She tried to grow again, a desperate last attempt. Her form swelled slightly, muscles rippling—but I simply waited. The colors showed me she was a lost cause. The moment it did, I struck her throat with a precise jab. Not enough to kill, just enough to ensure she wouldn't be growing—or talking—for a while.

  As she collapsed, gagging and clutching her neck, I stood up and brushed off my pants.

  The rush of satisfaction faded as I crossed the second street, replaced by the very practical problem of my appearance. I caught my reflection in a shop window and winced—blood spattered across my white uniform shirt, collar torn, and what looked suspiciously like someone else's tooth caught in a fold. The distant whine of engines cut through the morning air—City Protectors, finally deciding to show up. Their distinctive hover-vehicles cast shadows over the buildings behind me. I ducked into a side street, not particularly interested in explaining why a student looked like he'd just walked out of a slaughterhouse.

  I couldn't go to the academy like this. The blood alone would trigger enough alarms to summon every counselor and security officer within a five-mile radius. And going home to my aunt's? I almost laughed at the thought. She'd either have a heart attack or call the police—possibly both.

  A neon sign caught my eye: "24/7 Fitness Center." Perfect!

  The bored attendant barely glanced up from his phone as I walked in. I caught a glimpse of his screen—some viral video of the fight I'd just left. Great, it was already spreading.

  The locker room was mercifully empty. I spent fifteen minutes scrubbing blood from my hands and face, watching pink water swirl down the drain. My knuckles were already bruising, but nothing that wouldn't heal in a few days. The uniform, though, was a lost cause. I checked my wallet: $49 to last until the end of the week. The nearby discount store had basic clothes, but even their cheapest options would eat most of that. Still better than showing up to class looking like an extra from a horror movie. Twenty minutes and $32 later, I was wearing the world's most generic grey hoodie and black pants. They felt cheap and scratchy, but at least they were clean. My ruined clothes went into a dumpster, wrapped in enough paper towels to hide the bloodstains.

  I stared at the remaining $17 in my wallet. Three days until my next allowance transfer. That meant instant noodles and tap water, assuming I wanted to afford the bus and train fare to actually get to classes.

  "Hey! Hey, North!"

  While mindlessly trudging down the hallway, a faint tingling sensation brushed the edge of my consciousness. The air seemed to shift around me, the bustling hallway suddenly feeling sharper, more focused. Before I could fully process the sensation, a blur of movement caught my eye.

  A hand shot out from my right, aiming straight for me.

  But my mind reacted faster than my body, moving on pure instinct. I sidestepped smoothly, the motion fluid and unthinking. The man who had lunged at me stumbled forward, caught off guard by my unexpected reaction. He wobbled precariously, his arms pinwheeling for balance, before finally managing to steady himself.

  " Whoa!" He windmilled his arms, barely catching himself before face-planting on the polished floor. "Man! When did you get so fast?"

  I stared at him, trying to place the face. Young, energetic, with an easy smile that suggested he was used to people liking him. Something tugged at the edges of my memory—a name, a connection, fragments of conversations that hadn't happened yet in this timeline.

  "What’s going on with you today? You were absent from the ‘Power Theory’ lecture too?" he asked, shaking his hands.

  Believe me when I say, it took every ounce of mental effort to recall the man’s name.

  Alex. Right. The memory suddenly clicked into place, like an old photograph finally coming into focus. We'd been friends, sort of, in both previous lives. Though 'friends' might be too strong a word—more like consistent acquaintances.

  "Sorry," I said, trying to cover my momentary lapse. "Been a weird morning."

  "I'll say! Did you see the viral video?" He stopped mid-sentence, squinting at me. "Hey, you look kind of rough. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. All good.”

  "Man, never mind that—did you hear about what happened this morning?" Alex's eyes lit up with excitement. "This massive fight near the bus station! Some crazy villains literally ripped a bus in half! At Least half a dozen people are dead."

  "Really?" I kept my face carefully blank. "Hadn't heard about it. I took a different route today."

  "Oh man, you missed it! It's all over HyperSpace!" Alex pulled out his phone, fingers flying across the screen. "This huge woman, like building-sized, was fighting some guy in a tech suit with wings. But in the end some rando showed up and just destroyed them both! Just straight-up beat them unconscious and left. The videos are insane—look!"

  I glanced at the shaky footage on his phone, watching myself through a stranger's lens. The video quality was poor, but the violence was clear enough. "Seems dangerous," I commented mildly. "Probably best to stay away from stuff like that."

  "—they're calling him the 'Wild Striker' since he just appeared out of nowhere and started beating the villains," Alex was saying, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

  I made a noncommittal sound, still struggling to fully engage with this conversation. A century and a half of life made these youthful interactions feel like trying to read a book written in fading ink—I could make out the general shape, but the details kept slipping away.

  "Speaking of not staying away from things," Alex tucked his phone away, switching topics with his usual abrupt energy, "you're coming to the semester party, right?"

  "Semester party?" I repeated, genuinely trying to remember. The phrase tugged at something in my memory, but the details were foggy.

  "Yeah! It's mainly to welcome the new batch of students, but I heard a lot of seniors also show up to scout for potential recruits. So, you can imagine what a good opportunity it'll be not just to meet them but to get acquainted," Alex said, his excitement evident.

  I nodded slowly. He had a point—it would be a valuable chance to observe others and learn about their abilities. I'd spent previous cycles buried in books and theories, but maybe it was time for a different approach.

  "When is it exactly?" I asked. "Been trying to keep track of all the new schedules."

  "Friday! Just three days from now." Alex grinned. "You have to come. After that fight this morning, everyone's going to be talking about meta-abilities and combat potential. Perfect timing, right?"

  "Count me in," I said, already thinking about the possibilities. A gathering of meta-users, all eager to show off their abilities... could be interesting to refresh my memories.

  Alex looked like he wanted to continue the conversation, but I cut him off with a vague gesture. "I should get going. Need to take care of some things."

  "Sure, sure," he nodded.

  We parted ways in the hallway, Alex still chattering about the viral videos to anyone who would listen. I had two more lectures scheduled, but my muscles were aching and my cheap new clothes were starting to itch. Besides, I needed time to think. The academy could spare me for one day. I turned toward the exit, already planning my route home.

  My aunt's place was only thirty minutes away by train—close enough to be convenient, far enough to maintain some independence.

  When I arrived, I fished the spare key out of my pocket and unlocked the door, glancing around as I stepped inside. The house was quiet—no sign of her. A small relief. No awkward exchanges or probing questions today. Not that she would ask many questions. She wasn't the type to pry, which was probably why my parents had chosen her as my guardian while I attended the academy. That, and her convenient location near the school.

  I made my way upstairs, the stairs creaking faintly under my weight. Once in my room, I dropped my backpack onto the chair and with a groan, I collapsed onto the bed, my body finally giving in to exhaustion.

  Sunlight streamed through the window, and I found myself reaching up toward it, watching the light play between my fingers. Somewhere in the city, people were still talking about this morning's fight, sharing videos, creating fan pages. All for what? A few moments of violence that solved nothing.

  Three hundred years ago, when meta-nature first appeared, people thought it would change everything. Superpowers, they called them then—like something out of their comic books and movies. Those first meta-humans were celebrated, feared, worshipped. People who could fly, conjure flames, lift cars with their minds. Simple powers, but revolutionary. It was as though humanity's collective imagination had shaped these abilities into something wondrous.

  The world hadn't been ready for meta-humans at first. I'd read enough history to know how fear had turned to violence, how suspicion had led to persecution. Those early meta-humans lived under constant scrutiny, treated more like threats than miracles. Everything changed with the Meta Freedom War—a cataclysm that had rewritten humanity's genetic code. Instead of being stamped out, meta-abilities exploded through the population, tipping the scales until they became the new normal.

  I let my hand fall back to the bed.

  What was once extraordinary had become commonplace. These days, everyone had some form of meta-nature, though "having" and "useful" were very different things. For every person who could manipulate gravity or control fire, there were thousands who could only change their hair color or make plants grow a fraction faster. The word "Superhero" was now reserved for the elite of Ecleon—the very best of the best. The rest of us? Just ordinary people in an extraordinary world.

  My stomach growled, interrupting my philosophical musings. With a groan, I pushed myself off the bed.

  Downstairs, the kitchen offered little comfort. The fridge was nearly bare except for a few bottles of beer—my aunt's contribution to the household. A search through the cupboards yielded a single packet of instant noodles.

  Seventeen dollars. That's all I had left after buying these cheap clothes. My parents' allowance barely covered academic expenses, and I couldn't ask for more without raising questions. No wonder my grades had suffered in the first cycle—poverty had a way of destroying focus. I carried the steaming noodles back to my room, careful to lock the door behind me. The bowl went on my desk as I pulled open the bottom drawer, retrieving my most valuable possession: a sleek chrome headband. It was heavier than it looked

  Settling into my chair, I slipped the cool metal band across my temples and over my eyes. The fit was perfect, familiar from countless uses.

  With a deep breath, I adjusted my posture and let my consciousness sink into the band.

  The room around me dissolved into blackness.

  Almost instantly, a glowing white logo materialized in the void, the words "Hyper Space: Designed and Powered by Mind Space" etched in clean, modern font.

  A few seconds later, the logo faded, and I found myself standing in a boundless expanse of pristine white floor that stretched endlessly in all directions, devoid of shadows or imperfections.

  Glancing down at myself, I noticed my features had softened and simplified, taking on a cartoonish quality.

  My limbs felt lighter, more fluid, as though the usual weight of reality had been stripped away. I flexed my fingers experimentally, watching them move with exaggerated smoothness.

  The transition was seamless, and yet the strangeness of it all never quite faded. All around me, hundreds of other users flickered in and out of existence, each with their own unique character designs—some realistic, others wildly fantastical. Some leapt effortlessly between invisible platforms, their movements fluid and playful, while others vanished entirely, leaving behind shimmering trails of light. This was the internet made manifest: a physical, interactive space where data and imagination intertwined. It translated the sprawling network of information into a tangible world, one you could navigate, build, and manipulate with ease. Meta-devices came in all shapes and forms—headbands, bracelets, rings, even decorative coins. Their function was the same, but the price tags varied wildly— limited only by how much money you could sink into them.

  A quick glance around the bustling expanse of HyperSpace reminded me how alive it was.

  I willed myself away from the public space, retreating to my personal lounge. It wasn't much—a simple desk, chair, and minimalist walls. Basic, but it served its purpose. A thought triggered my interface, translucent screens materializing with my activity logs: time spent, social interactions, community contributions. Nothing remarkable there.

  I swiped past the logs and tapped on a widget labeled “Network Hub.”

  It immediately expanded, displaying a variety of links and access points to other hyperspaces: games, chatrooms, community hubs, and specialized applications for every imaginable purpose.

  The sheer breadth of possibilities was staggering, but my focus was singular right now.

  I needed money, and this was the time to earn it.

  I'm also starting this small series SuperWorld in the notes to share some extra details about the world with you all. These trinkets would be spread throughout the chapters.

  SuperWorld, we’re greeted by the city’s most famous podcast duo, Jamie and Riley! Known and loved by everyone, they bring humor, heart, and just the right amount of chaos to their episodes. Whether they're bantering about the latest superhero antics or diving into deep, offbeat questions, they’re the kind of people you can’t help but adore.

  "Meta Matters: The Awkward Art of Meta-Nature Etiquette"

  [Upbeat intro music plays]

  Jamie: Welcome to Meta Matters, the show where we discuss everything meta-nature and how to survive in a world full of awkward superpowered interactions. I’m Jamie, your guide to not getting accidentally frozen by your neighbor’s angst teenagers.

  Riley: And I’m Riley, here to remind you that just because you can grow someone’s nails into an elegant sculpture doesn’t mean you should. Welcome, everyone, to "The Awkward Art of Meta-Nature Etiquette!"

  Jamie: Today, we’re tackling those sticky, awkward, and sometimes downright bizarre social situations that arise when everyone around you has powers. From politely declining overly helpful metas to setting boundaries with people who insist on teleporting into your personal space.

  Riley: And before we dive in… no, we don’t hate metas. We’re metas ourselves. Jamie, you can… uh… what is it you do again?

  Jamie: I’ve got minor telepathy… like, super minor. I can tell what people want for lunch, but only if they’re really craving it.

  Riley: And I can make toast pop out of thin air… just toast, no butter. I’m basically a breakfast magician with no budget. Anyway, let’s jump in!

  Jamie: First up… "How to politely decline overly helpful powers." Let’s set the scene. You’re walking through the park, just enjoying your day, and then BAM! Someone pops up and says, "Hey! I can dye your hair rainbow colors with my mind. Wanna try?"

  Riley: Oh, classic. And you’re standing there like, “Uh, no thanks, Karen. I have a job interview tomorrow, and I don’t think unicorn highlights scream ‘hire me’ to most bosses.”

  Jamie: Exactly! So here’s what you do. You smile… super big… almost creepy. Then you say, "That’s such an interesting offer, but I’m good for now! Maybe next time?"

  Riley: Translation: NEVER. But… you gotta keep it polite, because people with power-hair-dying abilities are often sensitive.

  Jamie: Right? Like, they think they’re doing you a favor, but it’s okay to remind them that you’re a grown adult capable of deciding when and how your hair gets dyed.

  Riley: Pro tip: If they don’t take no for an answer, just subtly mention that your "friend" got their hair turned into spaghetti noodles by someone with a similar ability. That shuts ‘em up fast.

  [Both laugh]

  Riley: Next scenario: "How to politely decline a nail-growing offer."

  Jamie: Okay, this one’s a personal favorite. You’re at a party, having a great time, and then someone’s like, "Oh my God, let me grow your nails to match your vibe!"

  Riley: First of all… my vibe? How about mind your business?

  Jamie: Exactly! And here’s the kicker: They act like they’re doing you a favor. Like, "Oh, you don’t want dagger nails that could double as murder weapons? Weird."

  Riley: Here’s how you handle it. You lean in close… real close… and whisper, "You know, the last person who did that to me ended up with nail fungus… everywhere."

  Jamie: Savage. Or you could say, "I’m trying this new thing called NOT HAVING WEIRDLY LONG NAILS." But that’s just me.

  Riley: Bottom line? Nobody needs unsolicited nail enhancements. Period.

  Jamie: Okay, this next one hits close to home: "How to deal with people who teleport into your personal space."

  Riley: Oh, you mean Gary?

  Jamie: Yes, Gary. The man who thinks "boundaries" is just the name of a bad indie band. Last week, I’m in my kitchen, reheating leftovers like a normal person, and poof! Gary appears, holding a six-pack of soda. And he’s like, "Hey! Thought we could hang out!"

  Riley: Oh no. Did you at least take the soda?

  Jamie: Obviously. I’m not a monster. But still… WHO DOES THAT? I could have been cooking naked!

  Riley: Rule number one of teleportation etiquette: If you wouldn’t physically walk into someone’s house uninvited, don’t port into it either. Just because you can teleport doesn’t mean you should. It’s like farting in an elevator—technically possible, but morally wrong.

  Jamie: Exactly! And rule number two: If you do teleport uninvited, prepare for the consequences. Glitter traps, chili powder bombs, or me aggressively eating reheated lasagna while glaring at you. Anything goes.

  Riley: Honestly, nothing says "learn your boundaries" like being hit with a glitter chili bomb. It’s part disco, part pepper spray, and 100% effective.

  Jamie: Pro tip: If you want to scare them off permanently, just casually mention that you’re "experimenting with anti-teleportation tech" and point at a random blinking gadget. Works like a charm.

  Riley: Bonus points if the gadget is just your Wi-Fi router. Nobody needs to know the truth.

  Jamie: So, Gary, if you’re listening: the next time you "poof" into my house uninvited, you might end up wearing glitter for weeks. Consider yourself warned.

  Riley: Or if you’re me, you put a "No Porting Zone" sign on your door and hope for the best.

  Jamie: Does that actually work?

  Riley: No, but it makes me feel better.

  [Both laugh]

  Riley: Last one for today: "When someone uses their powers to try to fix your problems without being asked."

  Jamie: Oh, the worst. Like, "Oh, let me levitate that box for you!" or "Here, I’ll fix your posture with my bone-manipulating powers."

  Riley: Yeah, hard pass. If I wanted someone to "fix" me, I’d call my therapist, not the dude who just learned how to hover.

  Jamie: Or worse, "Hey, I noticed your plants are dying. Let me make them immortal for you!" Like, great… now I’ve got unkillable weeds that I’ll have to explain to my landlord.

  Riley: Exactly! And let’s not forget the "helpful" metas who decide you need their powers without consulting you. Like that guy last week who tried to clean my apartment with his whirlwind ability. Newsflash, Greg, throwing my laundry into the ceiling fan isn’t "organizing."

  Jamie: Here’s the thing, folks: unsolicited meta help isn’t help. It’s just showing off. And here’s how you shut it down: You look them straight in the eye and say, "Thank you, but I’ve got this. I’m working on my human-level coping skills."

  Riley: Or hit them with, "Wow, I didn’t realize you were auditioning for Most Obnoxiously Helpful Meta 2794. I’ll be sure to nominate you."

  Jamie: And if all else fails… teleport away.

  Riley: Or find a "No Porting Zone" sign. I hear those work wonders.

  [Both laugh]

  Riley: That’s it for this week’s episode of Meta Matters! Remember, navigating a world of meta abilities is all about setting boundaries, using humor, and never letting someone dye your hair rainbow unless you really, really want it.

  Jamie: Thanks for listening, everyone! Don’t forget to follow, leave a comment, review and send us your awkward meta stories for our next episode.

  Riley: Until then, stay super, stay polite, and stay out of teleporting range!

  [Outro music plays]