It happened on a night Kenzo was too tired to fight himself.

The city was loud, restless, full of people moving too fast and feeling too much. A man shoved past him on the street, muttering an insult under his breath. Normally, Kenzo would’ve ignored it.

This time, something inside him leaned forward.

He turned. One look was all it took. The man faltered, words dying in his throat as Kenzo’s calm gaze held him in place. Kenzo felt it then — the ease of it. The control. How simple it would be to push, to break, to reshape.

Do it, the thought whispered. You’re only showing him the truth.

Kenzo’s chest tightened. His hands curled into fists. For a terrifying second, he wanted to listen — not out of anger, but curiosity.

Then he saw his reflection in a dark shop window.

Not smiling.

Not human.

He stepped back, breath shaking. “No,” he whispered. “That’s not who I am.”

The feeling recoiled, irritated. You survived because of me, it reminded him. You owe me.

Kenzo closed his eyes, fighting the pull, remembering the bus, the fear, the choice he made when it mattered most. He forced himself to feel — guilt, doubt, empathy — anything real.

The man scoffed and walked away, unaware of how close he’d come to something else entirely.

Kenzo stood there long after, shaking, heart racing.

He hadn’t lost.

But he hadn’t won either.

As he walked home, his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number. No name. No picture. Just six words that made his blood run cold:

“You’re getting better at this.”

It happened on a night Kenzo was too tired to fight himself.

The city was loud, restless, full of people moving too fast and feeling too much. A man shoved past him on the street, muttering an insult under his breath. Normally, Kenzo would’ve ignored it.

This time, something inside him leaned forward.

He turned. One look was all it took. The man faltered, words dying in his throat as Kenzo’s calm gaze held him in place. Kenzo felt it then — the ease of it. The control. How simple it would be to push, to break, to reshape.

Do it, the thought whispered. You’re only showing him the truth.

Kenzo’s chest tightened. His hands curled into fists. For a terrifying second, he wanted to listen — not out of anger, but curiosity.

Then he saw his reflection in a dark shop window.

Not smiling.

Not human.

He stepped back, breath shaking. “No,” he whispered. “That’s not who I am.”

The feeling recoiled, irritated. You survived because of me, it reminded him. You owe me.

Kenzo closed his eyes, fighting the pull, remembering the bus, the fear, the choice he made when it mattered most. He forced himself to feel — guilt, doubt, empathy — anything real.

The man scoffed and walked away, unaware of how close he’d come to something else entirely.

Kenzo stood there long after, shaking, heart racing.

He hadn’t lost.

But he hadn’t won either.

As he walked home, his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number. No name. No picture. Just six words that made his blood run cold:

“You’re getting better at this.”