The streets were quiet, empty except for the occasional streetlamp flickering in the early night. Oswald's breath came in ragged gasps as he sprinted, backpack bouncing against his shoulders. Glass crunched behind him from the window he'd smashed, but he didn't look back.
His home wasn't far, just a few blocks away, but each step felt surreal. He had just fought a werewolf, dragged it to a magical seal, and—somehow—walked away unscathed. And then, Lyra… she had pointed a spell at him. Ready to trap him like some monster.
He skidded around the corner and ducked into a narrow alley, pressing his back against the wall. His chest heaved, and he realized how terrifyingly fast he had healed. The scratches on his arms and the bruises from chairs and claws were completely gone. No marks at all.
"What… what am I?" he whispered into the darkness. His voice sounded small, even to himself. He had survived something that would have killed anyone else. And not just survived—he had fought. And now Lyra feared him.
The thought hit him like a punch: maybe he was dangerous. Maybe he didn't understand what he could do yet.
Oswald ran the last block to his house and slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. The familiar smell of home was comforting, but it couldn't erase the pounding fear in his chest.
He leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor. "I can't go back… not yet. She'll try to seal me. And what if there's more?"
Outside, the wind carried the faint echo of Lyra's voice, calling after him in disbelief and anger. Somewhere in the city, shadows shifted. Other supernatural beings—wolves, spirits, things he didn't even know existed—were stirring. They had sensed the fight. They had sensed him.
Oswald clenched his fists. He didn't know what he was, didn't know how he could heal or fight like that, but he did know he had survived tonight. And survival meant running, hiding, learning—fast.
He sank lower against the wall, the first chill of fear settling deep in his bones. This was only the beginning. The night was far from over. And Oswald Omni, the "normal" teen who had just smashed a werewolf through a window and escaped, was now a target.
Oswald sat on the floor of his small room, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside his window. His fists were still sore—or they should have been. He glanced down at his hands. Not a single scratch remained. His knuckles looked like they hadn't hit anything at all.
He swallowed hard. This wasn't just tonight. It's always been this way… hasn't it?
"I knew it," he whispered to himself. "I knew I wasn't like everyone else."
Memories flooded back:
The time he fell off his bike in middle school, bone snapping in his wrist—but by the time his mom took him to the doctor, the bone was straight, the pain gone.
The countless winters where everyone caught the flu, but he never once got sick.
Staying awake all night studying—or gaming—and still feeling fine the next morning. No real exhaustion, no bags under his eyes. Just… normal.
No. Not normal.
"I don't get sick. I don't stay broken. I don't even get tired like other people…" he muttered, voice trembling. "I thought I was lucky. Just… weirdly healthy. But this? Fighting a werewolf? Healing in seconds?"
He clenched his fists tighter. The truth pressed down on him, heavy and undeniable. "I'm not like them. I never was."
Outside, a dog howled in the distance. The sound made him flinch. It didn't feel like an ordinary dog. It felt closer, sharper. Maybe something was already hunting.
Oswald stood, pacing the room. His heart raced—not from fear now, but from a creeping, awful understanding.
If Lyra's scared of me… if she thinks I'm dangerous… then what am I really?
He looked at his reflection in the window. Just an ordinary teen staring back. But inside, something else was lurking. Something that made him survive things no human should.
"I'm different," he whispered to the empty room. "And now… I can't hide it anymore."