I rember the first ti I made fire appear in my palm. I was fifteen, huddled in the corner of my bedroom, a fresh bruise blooming across my cheek. My father had passed out downstairs, empty whiskey bottles scattered around him like fallen soldiers. The tiny fla danced in my hand—no larger than a candle's glow—but it was mine. A secret power in a life where I had no power at all.
My na is Sam. I'm twenty-three now, though there were many days I didn't expect to live this long. My story isn't one of heroism or redemption. It's a chronicle of pain, of breaking, and finally, of embracing what everyone always told I was: a monster.
My father made sure I knew the truth about myself from an early age. "You killed her," he would slur, whiskey breath hot against my face as his fists connected with my ribs. "If you hadn't been born, she'd still be here. You're a curse, boy. A goddamn curse on this family."
My mother died giving birth to . I never knew her except through the faded photographs my father would sotis stare at before his drinking binges turned violent. In those pictures, she was beautiful—dark hair, gentle eyes, a smile that seed to promise safety. Safety I never knew.
The beatings were routine by the ti I was seven. A broken plate. A creaking floorboard when he was nursing a hangover. Sotis, no reason at all—just the need to punish for existing, for continuing to breathe while she couldn't.
"You're worthless," he would say as the belt ca down across my back. "Nothing but a burden. A mistake."
School offered no refuge. Kids can sense weakness like sharks scent blood in water. I was small for my age, always hungry, dressed in clothes that never quite fit. The bruises I couldn't hide made an easy target.
"Hey, Sad Sam," they would taunt, shoving into lockers. "Did you trip and fall again? Or did Daddy remind you what a piece of shit you are?"
I learned to disappear—to make myself so quiet, so still, that people forgot I was there. I beca a ghost haunting the halls, slipping through crowds unnoticed, hiding in bathroom stalls during lunch because eating alone in the cafeteria made too visible.
The fire ca to during one of those hiding sessions. I was sitting on the closed toilet lid, pressing a wet paper towel against a bloody nose courtesy of Jason rrick, the star quarterback who enjoyed using as a punching bag. I rember staring at my shaking hands, wishing I could hurt him like he hurt , wishing I had so way to fight back.
And then—warmth. A tiny spark dancing on my palm, flickering orange and gold. It didn't burn . It felt... right. Like sothing that had always been a part of , finally awakening.
I practiced in secret—in my room late at night, in abandoned corners of the school where security caras couldn't reach. I could make the fla grow from a spark to the size of a tennis ball, though anything larger left dizzy and weak. I could shape it too—into spirals and stars and tiny, dancing figures.
For the first ti in my life, I had sothing that was mine alone. Sothing beautiful. Sothing powerful.
I fantasized about showing my father—about the look on his face when he realized what I could do. Would he be afraid? Would he finally stop? Or would he still see as nothing but the thing that killed his wife?
I got my answer on my sixteenth birthday.
He ca ho drunker than usual, a special bottle of whiskey in hand—the expensive kind he saved for this day each year. The anniversary of her death. My birth.
"Sixteen years," he slurred, cornering in the kitchen. "Sixteen years she's been gone because of you."
I tried to slip past him, to retreat to my room as I always did when he got like this. But he was faster, grabbing my arm with bruising force.
"Where do you think you're going? Think you're too good to hear about her? About what you took from ?"
"Dad, please—"
The back of his hand connected with my face, splitting my lip. The familiar copper taste of blood filled my mouth.
"Don't call that," he hissed. "You don't get to call that. You aren't my son. You're the thing that killed my wife."
Sothing snapped inside then. Years of pain and fear crystallized into white-hot rage. I felt heat rushing through my veins, pooling in my fingertips.
"Let. . Go," I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
He laughed—a harsh, ugly sound. "Or what? What are you going to do, boy?"
The fire erupted from my hands before I could stop it—not the controlled fla I'd practiced, but a violent explosion of heat and light. It caught his clothes, racing up his sleeve. He scread, releasing as he frantically tried to extinguish the flas.
I stood frozen, watching as he stumbled backward, tearing at his burning shirt. The air filled with the acrid sll of burning fabric and flesh. He managed to pull off the shirt, revealing angry red burns across his chest and arms.
His eyes t mine, and what I saw there wasn't pain, wasn't fear—it was pure hatred.
"Monster," he snarled, backing away from . "I always knew there was sothing wrong with you."
He grabbed a heavy wooden baseball bat from beside the door—his protection against ho invaders, he'd always said. Now I realized it had been ant for all along.
"Dad, I didn't an to—" I began, but he was already swinging.
The first blow caught across the shoulder, sending white-hot pain shooting down my arm. I stumbled, falling to my knees. The second strike hit my back with a sickening crack.
"Please," I gasped, collapsing onto the floor. "Stop."
But he didn't stop. The bat ca down again and again. Through the haze of pain, I heard him ranting—about my mother, about how I'd ruined his life, about how he should have drowned at birth.
I couldn't take it anymore. The fire inside surged, responding to my desperation. I raised my hands in a futile attempt to shield myself, and flas erupted from my palms—not a small, controlled burn this ti, but a raging inferno.
I didn't an to kill him. I just wanted the pain to stop.
The fire engulfed him in seconds. His screams echoed through the house as he flailed, a human torch in our kitchen. I scrambled backward, watching with a mixture of horror and terrible fascination as he collapsed to the floor, still writhing as the flas consud him.
The sll was the worst part—burning hair and flesh. I should have been sickened. Instead, as his screams faded to whimpers and then to nothing at all, I felt sothing unfamiliar spreading through . Relief. Power. A savage kind of joy.
I had made it stop. After all those years, I had finally made him stop.
By the ti the neighbors called ergency services, drawn by the smoke pouring from our windows, my father was nothing but charred remains on our kitchen floor. I sat on the front steps, watching dispassionately as firefighters battled the blaze that had spread to the rest of the house.
Police officers approached cautiously. They asked what happened. I told them part of the truth—that my father had been drinking, that he'd attacked . I didn't ntion the flas that had erupted from my hands. I didn't tell them that for one brief, terrible mont, I had enjoyed watching him burn.
They seed sympathetic at first. They put a blanket around my shoulders and spoke in gentle tones about trauma and shock. One of them even squeezed my shoulder—right where the bat had struck—making wince.
Then they began to exchange glances. One of them knelt beside , his voice still gentle but his eyes hard.
"Son, the fire departnt is saying the burn pattern is... unusual. Like the fire started at your father's chest and radiated outward. Can you explain that?"
I couldn't. Or wouldn't. I just stared at him, my mind racing for a plausible lie.
"We need you to co with us to the station," another officer said. "Just to sort this all out."
I knew then that they suspected. I should have run. But where would I go? What would I do? So I nodded numbly and followed them to the patrol car.
As we drove away from the smoldering remains of my childhood ho, the officer in the passenger seat turned to look at .
"What really happened back there, Sam?" he asked, his voice deceptively casual.
I opened my mouth, but no words ca out. How could I explain sothing I barely understood myself?
His partner, who was driving, t my gaze in the rearview mirror. Then, without warning, he pulled over to the side of the road.
"Hold him," the driver ordered, and before I could react, the officer in the passenger seat had grabbed my arms, pinning them behind .
The driver turned around, a syringe gleaming in his hand. "Sorry, kid," he said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "Can't have soone like you running around loose."
I struggled, panic rising in my throat. "What are you talking about? Let go!"
"We know what you are," the officer holding said, his grip tightening painfully. "And we know where you belong."
The needle plunged into my neck, and almost imdiately, the world began to blur around the edges. My limbs grew heavy, my thoughts sluggish.
As darkness closed in, I heard one of them say, "Facility Six will know what to do with him."
That was how I learned there were others like . That was how I discovered what happens to monsters in a world of n.
I woke up strapped to a tal table, harsh fluorescent lights burning my eyes. My head throbbed, my mouth bone-dry. I tried to move, but thick restraints bound my wrists and ankles. A heavy collar encircled my throat, pressing uncomfortably against my windpipe when I swallowed.
A woman's face appeared above —steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, cold eyes behind wire-rimd glasses. She wore a white lab coat with a badge that read "Dr. Eleanor Voss, Research Director."
"Subject 247 is conscious," she announced to soone I couldn't see. "Vital signs stable. Proceeding with initial assessnt."
"Where am I?" My voice ca out as a rasp. "What is this place?"
Dr. Voss ignored , shining a penlight into my eyes. "Pupillary response normal," she noted. "No visible cellular degradation post-manifestation."
Another voice—male, clinical—spoke from sowhere to my left. "The report says he incinerated his father. Total combustion in under thirty seconds. Impressive pyrokinetic potential."
"Indeed," Dr. Voss agreed, her gaze sweeping over with cold calculation. "Subject 247 may be quite valuable. Schedule a full battery of tests—tissue samples, stress response, power ceiling evaluation."
"Stop calling that," I said, straining against the restraints. "My na is Sam."
Dr. Voss finally addressed directly, a thin smile curving her lips. "No, it's not. Not anymore. You are Subject 247, a dangerous mutant anomaly that requires study and containnt. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier this will be for you."
I felt anger rising, and with it, that familiar warmth spreading through my fingertips. But nothing happened—no flas, not even a spark.
Dr. Voss noticed my confusion and her smile widened fractionally. "The suppressant collar around your neck inhibits your abilities. Quite effective, isn't it? We've had years to perfect the technology."
"There are others like ?" I asked, montarily forgetting my situation in my surprise.
"Oh yes," she said. "Many others. Though fewer now than when we started. The mortality rate is... significant."
A chill ran through . "You're killing people."
"We're studying anomalies," she corrected. "Human subjects are incidental to the research. If they expire during the process, that's unfortunate but necessary for scientific advancent."
The casual way she dismissed human life—my life—made my blood run cold. My father had been a monster born of grief and alcohol. These people were monsters of a different kind—cold, calculating, seeing as nothing more than a lab specin.
"What do you want from ?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Everything," Dr. Voss replied simply. "Every cell, every secret, every aspect of the mutation that allows you to generate and control fire. And when we've extracted all possible knowledge from you, Subject 247, your remains will advance our understanding even further."
That was my introduction to Facility Six—the place that would be my prison and torture chamber for the next seven years.
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