[Location: Varynfall City – 01:30 p.m.]
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The sound drilled through the quiet morning.
Red eyes shot open, pupils dilating sharply against the wash of daylight filtering through half-drawn curtains. Nero blinked several times, disoriented. The white ceiling above him came into focus—familiar, cracked near the corner where he'd once tried (and failed) to tape up a poster.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
He turned his head, the sound grating against his still-hazy thoughts. The scent of laundry detergent and something metallic hung in the air. His gaze drifted to the shelves crammed full of light novels and manga, the spines forming rows that reflected his own disorganization. Posters of obscure bands lined the walls, some curling at the edges. A single cardboard box sat in the corner, still unpacked.
"What? How did I—?" he muttered groggily, voice dry.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
He groaned, rubbing his eyes, and reached lazily toward the alarm clock. But just before his fingers brushed the snooze button—
Bzzzt.
A sharp tingle ran through his arm, crawling up to his fingertips. It wasn't painful, but it was wrong. Like static beneath the skin. Nero froze, frowning, as faint wisps of smoke began to curl from the alarm clock's top vent. The display flickered, then went black.
He stared for a long moment. "Ugh… did this thing short-circuit?" he muttered, tapping it once. "Of course it did. That old geezer only buys cheap junk."
He sighed, letting his hand fall back to his side. The soft fabric of his white button-up shirt brushed his wrist—it was wrinkled, slightly oversized, the sleeves rolled down instead of folded. His collar hung loose around his slender neck.
When he threw the covers off, the fabric slid easily against his legs, revealing pale skin and shorts that had bunched at his thighs during sleep. His feet, small and narrow, touched the cold floor without flinching.
For a brief moment, he simply sat there, collecting his thoughts. Then it came rushing back—the party, the club, Annabeth. Her voice. Her lips. That strange, burning touch at his neck.
("That bitch…") His jaw tightened. ("She better not have done anything while I was out".)
He rose, unsteady only for a moment before brushing it off. Oddly enough, there was no sluggishness in his body—none of the usual morning fog that always weighed him down. In fact, he felt clear. Awake in a way that was almost unnatural.
"Whatever," he grumbled under his breath, padding toward the hallway. "I'm still gonna punch Alexander in the balls next time I see him."
The apartment was quiet, save for the soft noise of the fridge in the next room. The light of the sun bled through the blinds, painting stripes across the floor.
Though he could not think of anything else.
His mind wandered unwillingly to Annabeth—the way she smirked, her lushes raven hair. Her eyes, that strange violet, so alive. And so knowing, as if she held some great answer. The way she'd looked at him like she recognized something he didn't.
He scowled, rubbing his temple.
He didn't notice the way his own hair seemed to darken as he walked, that the loose white was bleeding into black near the roots. Nor did he notice how his red eyes dulled, shifting toward that same violet shade that haunted his thoughts.
He remembered her height, the way she'd towered slightly over him. His spine straightened unconsciously, and he grew—just barely, but enough.
He remembered her curves, the way she'd pressed against him. The buttons of his shirt suddenly strained faintly at the chest, the weight unfamiliar and wrong.
"What the hell…" His voice caught in his throat as he glanced down. Two unmistakable shapes pushed against the fabric of his shirt. "…Boobs?" He blinked once. Then again. "Nope. No, that's not right."
A dark strand of hair slipped into his vision. He froze. His hand reached up slowly, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed it aside. Black and glossy. Not white.
"What the—?" His heart rate spiked.
He looked down again, his legs, thighs—thicker. His voice came out softer and higher.
"Am I—?" He stopped himself. He recognized that voice. It was not his own, not anymore.
Without thinking, he bolted. The sound of his bare feet slapped against the wooden floor as he sprinted for the bathroom. He threw the door open so hard it rebounded against the wall.
He stared.
And the reflection staring back was not Nero Holiday.
It was Annabeth.
Her lips. Her eyes. Her hair falling perfectly down his—her—shoulders.
"What. The. Fuck."
He turned his head; so did the reflection. He raised a hand; so did she. The same delicate fingers, the same skin.
His breath hitched. "Am I on… fucking acid?"
He stumbled back, gripping the sink to steady himself. His reflection—her reflection—did the same.
"Okay, okay. Maybe I'm dreaming," he muttered, voice trembling but still biting with sarcasm. "Yeah, sure, a super vivid dream where I've turned into that crazy bitch who bit me."
He lifted a hand again, staring at it. Slender fingers, perfectly manicured nails.
"Okay," he muttered flatly. "Let's test it."
He clenched his hand into a fist and punched himself square in the cheek.
"OOF—!" He stumbled back. "Ow! …Okay, not a dream."
He stood there for a moment, touching his jaw, face flushed both from the pain and the absurdity. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped back into the hallway just as his front door swung open before he could think.
"Hey Nero! I used the spare key since I—"
Alexander froze mid-sentence.
Nero—Annabeth—turned slowly.
Alexander's eyes widened. His jaw dropped. His gaze traveled from her face to the curve of her chest to the smoothness of her legs.
"Oh—uh—Annabeth?" he stammered, paling. "I—uh—didn't know you and Nero were… uh…"
"Now hold on a damn sec—"
"Sorry for interrupting!" Alexander yelped, slamming the door shut before Nero could finish. The sound of hurried footsteps retreating down the hallway followed immediately after.
"…Moron," Nero muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He looked down at himself again, ignoring the obvious as best as he could. He took a deep breath, then another, closing his eyes. A warmth began to bloom beneath his skin—not painful, but strange, like his blood was rewriting itself.
When he opened his eyes, the world shifted. His limbs shortened, the curves vanished, the strands of hair turned white again. He felt lighter and smaller, like himself.
He blinked, glancing at his reflection again—back to Nero.
"…I have superpowers," he said slowly, touching his face with cautious fingers. Then, with a faint shrug, he added dryly, "Neat."
---------------------
[Location: Varynfall City – 03:30 p.m.]
"Heh, fucking hilarious."
The sound came out of Nero like a scoff that turned into a sigh.
He'd been standing there for nearly two hours—barefoot on the cold tile, arms loosely crossed, the sound of the fluorescent light buzzing above him. Despite the time, he didn't feel tired. In fact, he felt unnervingly awake. His pulse didn't slow, his body didn't ache, and his mind refused to dull.
The reason for his laughter was swaying right before his eyes.
His hair.
Long, wild, white strands that now floated faintly in the air like they had their own mind, as if the room's gravity no longer applied to him. They moved and curled in patterns, every few seconds, they shifted shade—silver to stark white to a glossy black, and then, when his thoughts wandered, to a soft gold before returning to white again.
He tilted his head, watching his reflection do the same.
"The shaft is a protein structure with a cuticle, cortex, and medulla…" he muttered absently, voice carrying absentminded curiosity. "While the follicle is the living part in the skin where new hair's made… grows in four phases—anagen, catagen, telogen, and exogen…" He blinked, the ends of his hair turning from blonde back to white. "Color's melanin."
He squinted at his own reflection as if lecturing himself.
"Right. So… either I'm breaking a few biological laws, or…" He trailed off, then smiled faintly. "Is this Biokinesis?" He tilted his head again, red eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Been trying to grow a beard for years, can't get a single strand to cooperate. Way more difficult it seems Guess this proves I'm still me, even if I can easily turn into…" He trailed off again, exhaling. "Annabeth."
Just saying her name made his jaw tense. He leaned forward on the sink, his delicate hands gripping the cool porcelain.
He stared a moment longer at his reflection before finally pushing away.
The motion was almost impatient. Bare feet padded against the tiles as he walked into the living room, he collapsed onto the couch. The cushions exhaled beneath his light frame.
"Maybe it's my hormonal balance," he muttered aloud, resting his arm over his eyes. "Could be that. Or…" he sighed, "maybe 'cause of the AIS thing. Probably easier for my body to shift into a chick anyway." He gave a faint, humorless laugh. "How stupid."
For a moment, the room was quiet—only the faint ticking of the wall clock.
Then a memory flickered. That spark he'd felt earlier, right before his alarm clock died. The static bite that had crawled up his arm. He lowered his arm and stared at his hand as if expecting the answer to reveal itself there.
"Wait," he said under his breath. "When I woke up, there was something else."
He sat up, index fingers extended in front of him. His brows drew together in concentration, eyes narrowing slightly. He tried to remember that exact feeling—the jolt, the electric tremor and the red flash behind his eyelids. He visualized the current, how it moved, how it felt.
Bzzzt.
A faint, red spark crackled between his fingertips. It danced there fragilely. His pupils dilated slightly, fascination overtaking him.
"Whoa…"
The spark thickened when he pulled his fingers apart. The air between them vibrated faintly. His hair reacted, flaring up in wisps and static strands, drawn upward by invisible charge. He could almost feel the power humming at the edges of his skin, threading through his blood like a pulse.
He smiled, genuine for once.
"Wonder if it's thunder or electricity," he murmured, lowering his hands. The crackle disappeared, leaving behind the soft smell of ozone. His hair slowly settled back against his shoulders.
And then it hit him fully—what had just happened.
"I actually…" His voice trailed into a disbelieving laugh. "I actually have powers."
For a long moment, he just sat there. The words didn't feel real yet. His heart beat faster—not from fear but from an unfamiliar kind of thrill. A part of him that had been quietly numb for years flickered awake. He'd always told himself he wanted a normal life, that being ordinary was fine—but he couldn't lie. This? This was exhilarating.
Before that feeling could spread further, something buzzed against his leg. His phone, vibrating insistently on the couch beside him.
He blinked, surprised. He didn't remember leaving it there.
He picked it up, thumb sliding across the screen.
"Yeah?"
["Dude, where are you? Orientation starts in thirty minutes!"] Alexander's voice burst through the speaker, and already grating.
"I was busy," Nero replied dryly.
["Busy laying pipe to Annabeth?"] Alexander teased immediately, voice full of a laugh that Nero could practically see on his smug face. ["Yeah, I get it—she's hot, man. I'm jealous as hell, but—"]
"Oi, we didn't fuck, you dumbass." Nero sat up straighter, annoyed. "She was… she was drunk yesterday, alright? I just let her crash here."
A pause. Then Alexander's chuckle again. ["Yeah, sure. You 'let her crash.' Real noble, man."]
"I'm gonna punch you in the throat," Nero muttered.
["Anyway, come on! I don't wanna go to orientation with just Catherine and Liz!"]
That made Nero smirk faintly. "What, still embarrassed from when Catherine shot you down? You've been avoiding them for a month."
["You can't blame me, man! That was brutal!"] Alexander groaned. ["I was heartbroken!"]
"Yeah, sure. You were heartbroken for a week. Then you got distracted by that waitress with the lip piercing."
["Okay—fair. But still, it'd be smoother with you there. You've got that… calm energy or whatever. Makes people talk."]
Nero snorted. "Sorry to say, but I haven't talked to either of them in a month either."
["What!?"] Alexander blurted. ["Dude, why!? I thought you were still keeping in touch."]
"I've been busy," Nero said simply. The same words he used whenever he didn't want to explain himself.
["Man, you're hopeless. Just get over here."]
"I said I'm busy again," Nero replied, standing up from the couch. "Just show me around later, yeah? We're in the same curriculum anyway. Send me where the class is. I'll show up."
["Wait, Nero—"]
He didn't wait. The line cut off with a small click, and the vibration of the phone stopped.
He tossed it onto the couch beside him and exhaled slowly. His reflection from the blank TV screen stared back—white hair falling softly across his eyes, the static still clinging to him.
"Now," he murmured to himself, a small, intrigued smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "for more experiments."