The next day at school was the most overwhelming and wonderful day of Bruce's life.
He'd woken up before his alarm, not to the jagged, internal shriek of the hum, but to the sound of a bird chirping outside his window. A single bird. He'd lain there for ten minutes, just listening to it.
Walking through the hallways of Oaktown High was like walking through a foreign country. The world was sharp. It was in high-definition. The roar of a hundred conversations, the slam of lockers, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum—it was just... noise.
It wasn't an assault.
For seventeen years, the hum had been an amplifier, turning the volume of the world up to a deafening, painful shriek. He'd walked these halls with his shoulders hunched, his head down, trying to make himself small, trying to block out the sensory overload.
Today, with the cool, heavy weight of the amulet resting beneath his shirt, he walked with his head up. The fog was gone. He could think. He could see. He saw the way sunlight cut through the high, dusty windows. He saw the crack in his history teacher's glasses. He felt, for the first time, not like a passenger in his own body, but like the driver. He felt... solid. He almost felt... happy.
He was at his locker, actually hearing the music in his cheap headphones for the first time instead of just using it as a muffled shield. He was so lost in the clarity of a guitar solo that he didn't hear the footsteps behind him.
SLAM!
A heavy, meaty hand slammed his locker door shut, the clang of the metal so loud and sharp in his new, clear head that he flinched. The music in his ears was replaced by a familiar, grating voice.
"Watch it, freak."
Dickson.
Dickson was a broad, beefy caricature of a high school bully, a boy whose neck was as thick as his skull, and whose only personality trait was a dull, persistent, unimaginative cruelty. He'd been singling out Bruce since middle school, drawn to his silence like a shark to blood.
Dickson shoved him, a hard, two-handed push to the chest that was meant to send him sprawling.
Ordinarily, this was the moment Bruce's world would shatter. The hum would explode, a screaming, defensive siren in his head. His fear would spike—not fear of Dickson, but fear of the hum, fear of what it would do if he let it, fear of the rage that always came with it.
He stumbled back from the shove, hitting the opposite wall of lockers. His headphones were knocked from his ears, dangling around his neck.
And he waited.
But nothing happened.
The hum was gone. The internal siren was silent. The fog of panic didn't descend.
In its place... was nothing. A cold, clear, absolute calm.
Dickson, arms spread, a stupid, triumphant smirk on his face, was waiting for the usual reaction: for Bruce to flinch, to cower, to slide to the floor and gather his books, making himself invisible.
Bruce just... looked at him.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't scared. He was... analyzing.
He saw the way Dickson's weight was unbalanced, leaning too far forward. He saw the slight tremor in his right hand, the one that had slammed the locker. He saw the acne on his chin. He wasn't a monster. He was just a... a boy. A loud, stupid, unbalanced boy.
"What, nothing to say?" Dickson snarled, his smirk fading, replaced by a flicker of confusion. This wasn't the script. Bruce wasn't cowering. He was just... staring. His eyes, usually clouded and distant, were sharp. And cold.
Dickson didn't like it. He needed the fear he was used to.
He shoved Bruce again, harder, slamming his head back against the metal lockers. "I said, watch it, weirdo. Go back to your witch house."
Bruce's head hit the locker with a flat thud. Pain flared, bright and sharp.
And in the silence of his mind, a new thought appeared, as clear and cold as a shard of ice.
He's touching me. I don't want him to.
He felt... a new sensation. It wasn't the hot, panicked rage of the hum. It was a cold, pure, logical intent. He felt, with an absolute, terrifying certainty, that he could move his hand—not to punch, not to push—but just... move it... and Dickson would stop. He would just... stop.
The thought was so clear, so powerful, and so calm that it terrified him more than Dickson ever had.
This was a new kind of monster. One that wasn't loud, but was perfectly, horribly quiet.
He broke eye contact. He pushed the thought down, deep, deep down.
He bent, picked up the algebra book that had fallen at his feet. He stood up, and without a word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps steady.
Dickson was left in the hallway, his hands still half-raised. He'd "won," as he always did. So why did he suddenly feel cold? Why did he have the distinct, unnerving feeling that he hadn't just been staring at a freak, but at something that wasn't human at all? He shook his head, shoved a nearby freshman to feel big again, and moved on.