The second day after my birthday began quietly.
I woke up early, even though I no longer needed sleep. Sleep was useless to me biologically, but it still held value. Shutting my eyes, silencing my thoughts, and drifting into nothingness… it was the closest thing I had to peace. Sleep was a pause button for existence.
When I opened my eyes, the morning light stretched across the floorboards of my room. My new computer sat on the desk like a small monument. My mother had bought it for me as a birthday present. We'd never owned one before—she never used computers. She didn't need to. But now, one sat waiting, a fresh portal to the world.
I slid into the chair, flicked the power button, and watched as the machine groaned to life.
The year was 2006. Computers weren't what they would one day become, but this machine was still far more advanced than what I remembered from my own past life in 2006. The screen brightened slowly, the familiar boot-up chime echoing. Lines of code flickered, then finally, the desktop appeared.
There was already an internet connection. My mother must have had it wired before giving me the machine. Thoughtful. Too thoughtful.
I wasn't interested in games or browsing mindlessly. What I needed was information.
I opened the browser and began typing names into the search bar. I was very careful when searching for sensitive information. I didn't want S.H.I.E.L.D. knocking on my door. Not that I was afraid of them, but I didn't want my current life to be destroyed. After all, for the things I wanted to pursue—like science and art—I needed to be part of society, at least temporarily.
I kept looking…
Charles Xavier.
Nothing.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
No official mentions, no leaks. So they had not turned into a public organization yet. It must still be secretive.
Mutants.
Blank.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling through my nose.
So that was it. This wasn't the comic universe, bloated with omega-level mutants, reality warpers, and timelines splintering every other issue. This was the cinematic universe. The MCU.
Relief washed over me.
Not that the MCU was safe—far from it. But it was at least predictable, relatively contained. The threats came in waves. Thanos wouldn't be around for years. Apocalypse wasn't looming. And I wouldn't need to deal with Scarlet Witch rewriting reality because she woke up in a bad mood.
Still, knowledge was thin. Movies weren't history. I needed to test what applied here and what didn't.
After a while, my focus shifted. My mind circled back to what happened yesterday. Singing.
That voice—the way my mother reacted—the strange new growth of wish energy inside me. I still didn't understand why singing worked. The Miracle Invoker potion wasn't supposed to behave like this. Singing wasn't a miracle. But the evidence was there: the wish energy had grown. Tiny, yes, but measurable.
If I wanted more, I needed an audience.
That thought led me into a rabbit hole of searching. I looked for venues, contests, any kind of stage where a child's voice could shine. Eventually, something caught my eye.
America's Got Talent.
A new show. It had just launched this very summer.
I clicked the link, scrolling quickly. Registration was still open—barely. The auditions in my state were scheduled within weeks.
A faint smile tugged at my lips. Perfect.
If a single song could shake my mother that much, what about an audience of hundreds? Thousands? Broadcast nationwide?
The idea wasn't just appealing—it was intoxicating.
With each person who listened, with each person who believed, with each heart stirred, maybe that wish energy would trickle into me. Drop by drop. Until one day, I'd have enough to grant something significant.
A knock at my door interrupted my thoughts.
"Adam, time for breakfast," my mother's voice called.
I quickly minimized the browser and shut off the monitor. No reason to let her see what I was digging into. She already thought of me as perfection incarnate—I didn't need to fuel her obsession further.
"Coming," I said, standing.
Breakfast was simple: scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice. My mother sat across from me, chin resting on her hand as she watched me eat with that same unblinking intensity.
"You like the computer?" she asked softly.
I nodded between bites. "It's good. Thank you, Mom."
Her lips curved into a smile, sharp and satisfied. "Only the best for you."
Her gaze lingered long, like she was cataloging every small expression I made. It wasn't affection—it was obsession disguised as love. I knew the difference. But I let her have her illusions.
"I was thinking," she said suddenly, "we should sign you up for lessons. Voice training. Piano. Violin. Whatever you want."
I swallowed, setting my fork down. "Maybe later. For now, I'll just practice by myself."
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to peer through me. Then, just as quickly, she smiled again. "Of course. You've always been so self-disciplined. I trust you."
Trust? That word felt misplaced. But I let it pass.
The meal continued in silence, the clinking of cutlery filling the air. My mind wasn't on the eggs or the juice. It was already spinning with plans, with stages, with lights.
AGT wasn't just an opportunity. It was a test. If my theory about wish energy was right, then standing before a crowd would prove it.
The idea made my pulse quicken.
The rest of the morning unfolded in quiet rhythm. My mother cleaned obsessively, humming to herself as she moved from room to room. I lingered near the computer, scrolling through forums, watching grainy clips of past auditions from similar talent shows. Singers, dancers, magicians—all of them desperate to be seen.
I studied the audience reactions carefully. When a performance connected, faces lit up. People clapped harder, leaned forward, some even teared up. That raw emotional resonance—that's what I needed to harvest.
I caught myself smiling faintly. Not because of the contestants, but because I could already picture it: the stage lights, the hushed silence before the first note, the eruption of applause when a child's voice carried something divine.
"Adam," my mother's voice drifted in from the kitchen, "I was thinking of baking another cake today. Would you like that?"
I leaned back in my chair, calling out, "Sure."
"Maybe vanilla this time," she mused, half to herself. "It suits you better than chocolate. Lighter. Sweeter."
I didn't respond.
Instead, I stared at the glowing screen in front of me, the AGT registration form still open. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Name: Adam.
Age: 5.
Talent: Singing.
I filled it in, while thinking about how I should tell my mother about this.
This wasn't just about impressing an audience. It was about gathering as much wish energy as I could.
When I clicked Submit, the screen refreshed, confirming my registration.
I leaned back, my small frame sinking into the chair.