The door clicked shut behind me with a dull thud. My shoes felt heavier than they should have, dragging across the polished floor of the apartment as I stepped inside. The silence swallowed me instantly, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
Straight to the bathroom.
The cold shower hit me like a slap the moment I stepped under it. Water cascaded down my shoulders, icy threads trickling across skin warmed too long by adrenaline and fire. My hands braced against the tiles, head bowed low, eyes half closed as the chill forced my chest to rise and fall in sharp, steady breaths.
The fire in me—the bow, the Astra, the recklessness of revealing myself—it all hissed beneath the cold spray.
I stayed there longer than needed. Maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe more. Time slipped in silence, the stream soaking into my hair, dripping along my jaw, tracing down my back until it felt like everything—blood, fear, anger—was being washed away.
And yet, when I finally turned the faucet off, it wasn't gone.
The heaviness was still there.
I toweled off and caught my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My eyes, faintly touched with gold, stared back. My hair, streaked with strands of the same color, clung wetly to my forehead. For a second, I didn't see myself. I saw someone else—someone not meant to exist in this world, yet forced into it anyway.
I leaned closer.
If my face was remembered, if someone from that alley had seen and lived to tell it, then rumors would start. They might call me superhuman. They might call me gifted. Or worse—mutant.
The word sat heavy in my gut. Mutants in this world weren't celebrities. They weren't idols. They were feared, hunted, dragged into cages in the name of science or safety. Even heroes couldn't always save them.
Mutant. The label alone was a curse.
And if it ever stuck to me?
The thought of being strapped to a cold table while men in lab coats dissected the secret of my body—of my soul—made my stomach knot.
I exhaled hard, slamming my palm against the sink.
But then I forced myself still. My breathing slowed.
Worrying over it was useless. The men I'd faced today… they weren't Hydra. They weren't S.H.I.E.L.D. They weren't anyone with power or backing. Just thugs. Street rats. Five men trying to scare a rich suit. Their words, their fear, their panic—it reeked of small-time desperation.
The chance they remembered me, or dared to speak of me, was low.
And even if they did…
My fists tightened at my sides.
Even if they did, it wasn't in my control.
All I could do was sharpen what I had.
I let that thought anchor me.
I dried off, pulled on clean clothes, and stepped into the living room. The lights were low, the city noise faint against the thick windows. Dropping onto the sofa, I leaned back until the cushions swallowed me whole.
My bow.
I remembered how it had felt, hot in my grip, wild and hungry. The Astra had answered the moment I called it, but my aim was sloppy, my release rushed, my control weak. The arrow had scorched cloth when I wanted it to pin, to bind, to disable.
That was my weakness.
Not the Kavach—it was absolute, unbreakable, already proven by bullets folding like fragile paper. Not the bow—it was divine, infinite in potential. No. The weak link was me.
If I couldn't control the Astra, then I was just a child flinging fire in a world already stacked with monsters.
So I set the rule for myself then and there.
At least one hour a day.
One hour to train my archery, to refine muscle memory until it was no longer clumsy instinct but a seamless extension of thought. One hour to tame Agni Astra's fire, to bend it not only into destruction but into control. Chains instead of corpses. Fire that bound instead of fire that consumed.
I could kill with it. Easily. But that wasn't what I wanted.
Killing made you an enemy. Killing drew attention. Killing drew blood you couldn't wash away.
No. If I had to burn this city, it would be only to protect.
I leaned forward, elbows braced against my knees, hands clasped loosely. The chill of the shower had faded, but the memory of the flames still burned.
The TV remote sat within reach. I grabbed it almost absently, thumbing the power.
The screen flickered to life.
The news anchor's voice filled the room, too cheerful for the picture being shown: shaky footage of a man in a ski mask pointing a revolver at a terrified cashier.
And then—red, white, and blue.
A shield arced across the screen, smashing into the gun, sending it flying. The thug staggered, tried to run, but a figure in blue surged forward. One punch. One clean strike. The criminal collapsed.
Captain America.
Steve Rogers.
He stood in the footage like something out of a myth, chest rising steady, shield strapped across his arm as if it had never belonged anywhere else. The crowd in the background cheered, phones raised, voices shouting his name.
I stared at the screen.
There was no mistaking it.
The time was close.
The world was changing—not slowly, not quietly, but violently. One man had already put on the suit. Another had built armor in a cave. A god would descend soon. And I was here, caught between them all, carrying power I had begged for but barely knew how to use.
I muted the TV and let the silence return.
My jaw clenched.
Time wasn't waiting for me.
If I stumbled, if I treated this world like the novels I used to read, it wouldn't kill me. No, the real danger was worse—losing control, being exposed, and watching everything spiral beyond repair.
No.
I wouldn't let that happen.
I leaned back again, head tipping against the cushion, golden light from the lamp overhead catching faintly in my eyes.
Tomorrow, training would begin.
And tonight, I would rest only enough to face it.