It started with a soda.
The vending machine at the end of the corridor was old. Sticky buttons. Buzzing lights. Sometimes it spat out two cans. Sometimes it took your money and went dead. Today, it did something different.
It broke me.
I pressed the button like I had a hundred times before. The screen blinked, ate my last $2.75, then just sat there humming.
"Seriously?" I muttered, slamming my palm against the plastic.
The soda didn't fall.
I hit it again. Harder.
A low hum started in my hand. My fingers buzzed. I pulled back, confused.
Before I could think, light exploded from my palm. A sharp crack, like lightning. The vending machine lit up from inside, shook once—then blew apart.
BOOM.
Glass shattered. Cans shot out like bullets. Sparks rained across the floor. Someone screamed. Someone else ducked behind the security desk.
I just stood there, eyes wide, hand still raised.
Smoke curled around me.
The air tasted like burnt wires.
And my hand… it was glowing.
Not on fire. Not smoking. Just—alive. Blue-white light danced across my fingers, crackling softly, like I was holding electricity in my skin.
Then came the sirens.
I ran.
Through the side stairwell, down four flights, out the service door. My heart pounded louder than the alarms behind me.
The elevator dinged above—Hero League response team, maybe a scout unit. No time to check.
The back alley opened into a narrow road. Cars blared past. I yanked up my hoodie, kept my head down, and blended into the crowd.
No one paid me any attention.
They never did.
Until now.
By the time I reached the train station, my hand had stopped glowing. My skin was normal again. I pressed my fingers together, testing. No hum. No buzz.
But I felt it.
Something new was under my skin. Coiled. Watching. Waiting.
A man bumped into me. My body tensed, ready to strike—and I didn't even know what that meant. He muttered an apology and moved on.
I took the long way home.
My apartment was still the same: cracked tile, flickering kitchen light, and a sink that gurgled when it drained. But as I locked the door behind me, it didn't feel like mine anymore.
I threw my hoodie on the floor and stared at my hands.
My fingers trembled.
I needed answers.
I pulled up the news.
LIVE REPORT: UNKNOWN POWERED EVENT DOWNTOWN—HERO LEAGUE INVESTIGATING
Footage showed the broken vending machine. Flames. Debris. Then me. Blurry, but recognizable.
Just my back. Hoodie. Jeans. Glowing hand.
"The League believes this may be a newly triggered individual," said a woman in a tight suit and heavy makeup. "We urge them to come forward and register. For their safety. And ours."
I muted the TV.
They didn't know who I was.
Not yet.
Half an hour later, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I didn't answer.
Then it buzzed again.
And again.
Three texts.
[MSG 1: "We saw what you did. You're not alone. The League is interested."]
[MSG 2: "Don't trust suits. Meet us tonight. Pier 9. Midnight. No names. No rules."]
[MSG 3: "You have a choice. Don't waste it."]
I dropped the phone.
My heart thudded in my chest.
This wasn't happening.
Except… it was.
Powers had been showing up for the last eight years.
No warning. No clear trigger. Some people got theirs during trauma. Some during dreams. Some during nothing at all.
Nobody knew why it started.
But everyone knew what happened next.
The Hero League stepped in.
They organized the gifted. Built training centers. Formed patrol units. They wore bright armor and smiled for the cameras. But they didn't move without orders.
And those orders came from investors. Billionaires. CEOs. The real bosses.
They said they kept the peace.
But not for free.
Then there were the Rogues.
The ones who said no.
Some were criminals. Thieves. Assassins.
But some just wanted out of the system. People who didn't trust the League. People who got tired of being told when and where they were allowed to save lives.
Heroes and villains. Those were the boxes.
And now… I had to choose one.
Midnight.
Pier 9.
The docks were dark. Wind off the water cut through my hoodie. I kept my hands in my pockets, head low. Every shadow looked like it might jump me.
But someone was already waiting.
She stepped out from behind a stack of shipping containers.
Tall. Lean. Black leather jacket. Eyes like smoke.
"You're late," she said.
"I wasn't sure I'd come."
"You did. That's enough."
She didn't ask my name.
Didn't offer hers.
"You're one of us now," she said. "Whether you like it or not."
"I don't know what I am."
She smiled. Not kindly. "That's where they want you—confused, scared. So you'll beg them for help. Sign their contracts. Put on the pretty suit."
I didn't say anything.
She stepped closer.
"They'll say it's safe. That they'll teach you control. But they'll control you. Decide where you sleep. Who you protect. Who you don't."
Her voice dropped. "You think heroes are free? They're tools. Weapons. Leashed."
"What about you?" I asked.
"We're wild. Dangerous. But honest."
I stared at her.
Then said, "Sounds like you're just criminals with better PR."
She laughed.
"You're not wrong. But we don't pretend to be saints."
I left without giving her an answer.
Walked home under a sky too quiet.
The city didn't look different.
But I was.
Back in my apartment, the silence pressed on me.
I stood in front of the mirror.
My reflection stared back—tired eyes, shaking hands, no idea who I was anymore.
Then I held out my hand.
Focused.
Breathe in. Hold.
Nothing.
Breathe out—
CRACK.
A spark jumped between my fingers. Blue light curled in my palm. My eyes widened.
It answered me.
Like it had been waiting.
At 2:12 AM, I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in my lap.
Two draft messages sat unsent.
One to the League.
One to the woman at the pier.
And between them, a third idea started to form.
What if I didn't answer either?
What if I made something new?
No orders.
No blood oaths.
Just a choice.
Freedom.
Justice that wasn't for sale.
I opened a blank note on my phone.
Typed two words:
Power Divide.