The world went quiet. The roar of the jeepneys, the chattering crowds—it all faded into a dull hum. Max's universe shrank to the space between him, the happy couple, and a loose chunk of concrete broken from the edge of a planter box about fifteen feet away. It was fist-sized, jagged, and gray with city dust.
He felt the power gather behind his eyes, no longer a gentle nudge but a coiled viper. The laughter of the ugly man grated on his ears. The girl's beautiful smile, directed at him, was an intolerable insult. Max didn't think. He acted.
He focused on the piece of concrete, yanking it with all the pent-up fury of his squalid existence. The rock didn't just lift; it launched. It flew through the humid air in a flat, vicious trajectory, a gray blur of pure malice.
There was a wet, heavy thwack. A sound of stone hitting bone and flesh that was louder than any gunshot.
The ugly man's story stopped mid-word. His eyes went wide with surprise, a small, dark hole instantly appearing on his forehead. For a second, he just stood there, his mouth agape. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed sideways, boneless, hitting the pavement like a sack of wet cement.
The beautiful girl's face was a mask of confusion, which dissolved into a scream that was thin and sharp and tore through the sudden silence. Blood, shockingly red, began to pool around the man's head, staining the dirty gray sidewalk.
Max didn't wait for the second scream. He turned and walked away, not running, his heart a cold, steady drum. Panic was for victims. He was something else now. He saw a skateboard leaning against a wall, left there by some kid. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed it, threw it on the ground, and stepped on.
He didn't need to push. He pushed with his mind.
He shoved himself away from the curb, a telekinetic blast against the pavement behind him that sent him rocketing into the street. The board wobbled, but he found his balance, a predator's instinct taking over. He wove through the stalled traffic, the shouts and car horns behind him just more noise.
He pushed again and again, propelling himself with invisible forces. He shot down the center of the road, a blur of motion. He was laughing, a wild, unrestrained sound this time. The wind tore at his filthy clothes, whipping his hair into his eyes, but he saw everything with perfect clarity. This was freedom. This was flight. This was control. He zipped down an alley, using the walls to bank and accelerate, a reckless, joyous ride away from the mess he'd made.
He ditched the board miles away, his adrenaline slowly subsiding into a cold, clear purpose. He was exposed. He needed to change. He walked into a department store, a ghost in tattered clothes, and found his way to the men's section. No one paid him any mind. He gathered what he needed: black cargo pants, a plain gray hoodie, new sneakers, a backpack. He walked into a fitting room with the items. He didn't bother trying them on. He focused, unlatched the door from the outside with his mind, and simply walked out a different exit, leaving his old, stinking clothes in a pile on the floor.
Dressed in his new, anonymous skin, with his stolen wallet and a stolen backpack, he walked into the lobby of a mid-range hotel. It was all glass and cool, conditioned air. He looked like any other tourist or traveler. He paid for a room for two nights in cash, his hand steady, his voice even.
Up in the room, the first thing he did was strip. He looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror. The scrawny body was the same, but the eyes were different. They were ancient and cold and held a terrifying spark.
He stood under the shower for a long time, the hot water stinging his skin, washing away not just the physical grime but the last vestiges of the pathetic creature he had been. He watched the dirt swirl down the drain, a symbolic funeral for the old Max.
Lying on the clean, white sheets of the hotel bed, he stared at the ceiling. His body was clean, his stomach was full, and his pocket held more money. He had taken a life. He felt no remorse. No guilt. He felt only… potential.
This power wasn't for parlor tricks or petty revenge. It wasn't just for food or a place to sleep. That was thinking too small. He could have anything. He could do anything. No one could stop him. He could build empires or tear them down. He could make the beautiful people weep and the powerful kneel.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in his life, he didn't dream of survival. He dreamed of godhood.