The city never really slept.
Even late at night, when the sidewalks were mostly empty and the wind smelled like rust and rain, New York pulsed with a heartbeat made of neon and traffic and faraway sirens. Raj stood at the edge of the rooftop again, hoodie zipped up tight, hands stuffed in his pockets like he was trying to hold himself together.
The stars above him were faint. The kind you could only see if you squinted past the glow of the billboards and high-rises. He leaned forward slightly, staring down at the empty alley below. No one watching. No cameras. Just a kid on a rooftop with a secret burning under his skin.
He took a breath.
Then slowly extended his hand.
Nothing.
No spark. No glow. No magical Disney light show.
Just… silence.
He grimaced. Of course. It only happened when he didn't want it to. The cafeteria apple, the glowing bathroom arms—his power responded like a mood ring with a personality disorder. If his body was a machine, it was one built by lunatic aliens with a twisted sense of humor.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's try something simple."
He closed his eyes, focusing.
Inhale sunlight. Exhale fire.
A warm hum began to stir in his chest. A faint vibration, subtle like the deep thrum of a power line. He focused on it, gently coaxing it upward through his limbs. It responded—not as a roar, but a whisper.
His palm glowed faintly.
Golden veins lit up, just beneath the skin, like something divine trying to claw its way out.
He held his breath, heart pounding.
The glow stopped short of a flare. It shimmered—subtle, contained. Like a candle behind frosted glass.
Raj opened his eyes slowly and flexed his fingers. His body didn't hurt. No searing pulse, no heatwave trying to melt his clothes. Just warmth. Controlled. Whispering.
"I can work with that," he said softly.
Then, he tried something different.
He knelt and pressed his palm flat against the concrete rooftop. Focused again.
Down, not up. Don't let it leak. Just channel it.
The surface beneath his hand warmed slightly. A faint shimmer spread outward in a soft ripple, barely visible—like heat waves off pavement. He grinned.
Then flinched as a pigeon landed next to him and let out a startled coo.
Raj stood up immediately, hand retreating into his hoodie.
He looked at the bird. "You saw nothing."
It cooed again, unimpressed.
Back in his apartment, Raj stared at himself in the mirror.
His reflection stared back—same dark hair, same tired eyes. But not quite the same.
There was something different now. Not in the face, but behind the eyes. A quiet intensity that hadn't been there before. Like something was watching the world through him.
He leaned closer to the glass. His irises were still normal. No glow, no slits, no comic book supernova effect.
But for a brief second, he swore he saw a flicker of light behind the pupils. Like a distant sun, breathing.
He leaned back quickly.
"Okay," he muttered to the mirror. "You're not crazy. You're just… metaphysically radioactive."
He splashed water on his face. It steamed faintly on contact.
"Great."
He sat on the edge of the bed, towel draped over his head. The soft buzz of his ceiling fan filled the silence. His phone buzzed next to him.
Text from: Ned Leeds
"Yo Raj! Wanna join Peter and me for some group study tomorrow? Physics lab partners! :D"
Raj stared at the message.
Peter again.
His mind flashed to the moment in the hallway—the kid's too-casual tone, the way his eyes watched like a microscope. Peter knew something. Or at least felt it.
Raj didn't think Peter was dangerous. Just… persistent.
And right now, persistent was almost worse.
He didn't reply.
Instead, he turned off the phone, tossed it across the bed, and went to his closet.
Inside, beneath an old winter coat, was a duffel bag with a cracked zipper.
He pulled it out, unzipped it, and removed what was inside.
A notebook.
Black leather. Unmarked. No logo, no name. Just pages and pages of scribbled thoughts—half-scientific, half-philosophical.
He had started writing in it three days ago.
It was his manual now. A record of everything strange happening to his body. Notes about the glowing. About the heat. About his senses going haywire. Today, he added another entry:
Day 4:
Controlled surface glow. Temperature remains stable.
Warmth seems linked to sunlight absorption. Glowing reduces once I consciously suppress it.
Peter Parker suspects something. Avoid direct confrontation. Stay quiet.
Need to test night-time recharge rate. Possible internal battery?
He closed the book.
Whatever he was turning into—it wasn't human. Not entirely. But it wasn't a monster either.
Not unless he let it be.
The next morning, he woke before the alarm. Sunlight had barely kissed the skyline, but already he felt it—like warmth tugging at his veins, like his skin had turned into solar panels.
He sat on the floor cross-legged and breathed.
In.
Out.
Focus.
He raised his arm and watched the faintest shimmer glow just beneath the surface—barely there, like morning dew catching light.
He smiled faintly.
Then muttered, "I'm getting better at this."
Still, he didn't go back to school right away.
Instead, he headed for Central Park.
There, in a secluded clearing surrounded by old trees and too many pigeons, he sat in the grass and closed his eyes.
A couple jogged past without noticing him.
Perfect.
He whispered to the sun, quietly, like it was a god only he could hear.
"Let's try again."
And the power answered.
Not with a roar.
But with a whisper that promised it was listening.
It wasn't a breakthrough. More like a quiet understanding—a confirmation that, little by little, he was getting a handle on it. The glowing, the warmth, the strange pull of energy in his veins... it was starting to make sense. Or at least, he was starting to make peace with it.
But as he sat there, grounded by the stillness of the park, a nagging thought crept in.
Peter.
Even after everything, the feeling of being watched hadn't left. He knew Peter was too curious to let it slide. Raj had hoped for just one quiet day, but he knew better.
It wasn't long before the echoes of his morning experience followed him back into the real world.