The gymnasium was loud, echoey, and smelled like sweat, floor polish, and the faint trauma of teenagers forced to perform cardio in public.
Raj stood near the far wall, hoodie still on, arms crossed as he eyed the racks of dodgeballs and cones lined up with threatening symmetry. The floors gleamed, and banners from school sports teams fluttered lazily from the rafters.
"Alright, warm-up laps. Ten minutes on the clock. Let's move," Coach Larrigan barked, already sipping from a massive thermos labeled "COFFEE OR DIE."
Students groaned and shuffled into a loose jogging formation like a herd of sleepy cattle. Raj sighed quietly and joined them, keeping to the middle of the pack.
The gym lights were bright, but sunlight still poured through the high windows, cutting gold stripes across the wooden floor.
He felt it the moment the first ray hit him.
A soft hum in his skin. A weightlessness in his limbs. His hoodie suddenly felt unnecessary—too hot, too tight. But he didn't take it off.
He just kept jogging.
One lap. Then two.
The students around him were already breathing harder. Raj wasn't even trying, but his feet glided across the floor like the ground had forgotten to resist him. His heart beat slow and steady. His muscles didn't burn. He felt like he could run forever.
And that's what scared him.
"Raj!" someone shouted from behind him. "Bro, pace down, it's not a race!"
He glanced over his shoulder. He was several feet ahead of the others without noticing. Too fast. Too easy.
He slowed down immediately, forcing a heavier step, pretending to stumble a little as he rounded the next corner.
Coach Larrigan raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
By the time the laps were over, Raj had barely broken a sweat. His classmates wheezed around him, leaning on their knees or dramatically collapsing on the floor like war survivors.
"Okay," the coach called, "Time to show me you can still throw a ball without embarrassing this school. Two-on-two dodgeball. No headshots. Let's go."
The groups divided quickly. Raj ended up across from Flash Thompson.
Of course.
Flash grinned the way bullies grin when the teacher's not looking.
"Well well, look who remembered to show up today," he said, spinning a dodgeball lazily in one hand. "You ready to eat rubber, glow-boy?"
Raj tilted his head. "Do you ever talk without sounding like a cartoon villain?"
Flash laughed. "Only when I'm winning."
The whistle blew.
Flash moved first, hurling the ball with the kind of overconfident strength that could snap a wrist if you didn't know how to follow through. Raj reacted without thinking.
His body moved before his brain could approve.
He didn't dodge.
He caught it.
The ball slapped into his hand with a heavy thud, the impact echoing through the gym like a gunshot.
Silence.
Even Flash paused mid-smirk.
Raj blinked down at the ball in his hand. He hadn't just caught it—he'd caught it with one hand. Mid-air. At an angle that shouldn't have worked.
The rubber was steaming slightly where his fingers touched it.
Someone muttered, "Whoa…"
Flash stepped back, clearly recalculating.
Coach Larrigan crossed his arms, watching intently now.
Raj slowly lowered the ball and tossed it back, underhanded, deliberately soft.
"You dropped this."
Flash caught it, but not without fumbling.
No one said anything.
Then Coach blew the whistle again. "Switch sides!"
They played a few more rounds, but the energy had shifted. People watched Raj now—not directly, not like accusations, but with curiosity.
He missed a shot on purpose. Got tagged once without moving. He tried to blend again.
But the moment was already out there, spinning in people's memories like a replay on loop.
The catch. The speed. The heat.
After class, Raj hit the showers quickly, making sure no one saw the faint glow that pulsed along his spine when the water hit him.
He changed faster than usual, hoodie back on, eyes down, avoiding conversation.
Flash bumped into him near the exit.
"Nice catch," he muttered, voice a little more subdued than usual.
Raj gave a casual shrug. "Good throw."
Flash stared at him for a second longer than necessary. Then walked away.
Outside, the sunlight was waiting.
He stood just under the edge of the gym roof, letting the warmth graze his hands.
His fingers twitched.
He looked down.
Tiny pulses of heat shimmered between his knuckles, like the air was folding inward. Not visible. Not obvious.
But real.
And it scared him. Not because it was power.
But because it felt natural.
Back at the school steps, he sat on the concrete and tried to calm his breathing—not because he was tired, but because his body wanted to move. Stretch. Run.
And he couldn't let it.
Not yet.
Not here.
He looked up at the sun.
It didn't answer him.
But it didn't need to.
It was still watching.