The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and old paper.
Sunlight filtered in through the high windows, catching dust in slow motion as the teacher spoke at the front. Tyler sat at his desk with his hands folded neatly, posture straight, eyes forward. The lesson was simple review, repetition, nothing demanding.
A sharp pressure bloomed behind his eyes, sudden and precise, like a hand pressing inward from the inside of his skull. Tyler's fingers tightened against the edge of the desk. His breathing stalled for half a second.
Then the world tilted not physically, but internally.
Information surged.
Not memories. Not images.
Instructions.
Tyler lowered his gaze, pretending to reread the page in front of him while something new unfolded behind his eyes. The pressure intensified, then stabilized, spreading outward in clean lines as if slotting into place.
This again, he thought calmly.
It wasn't panic. It never was.
This had happened before.
The first time, he'd been four years old. Thought Manipulation had arrived then, abrupt and complete, bringing with it a quiet warning: use too much, and it hurts.
The second time had been last year, when he was six. Mind Search had surfaced the same way focused, invasive, dangerous if misused. That time, he'd spent weeks learning when not to use it.
This time, at seven, the pattern repeated.
The pressure eased, replaced by clarity.
Emotional Influence.
The name didn't echo dramatically. It simply… appeared, like a label attached to something he could already feel forming. Tyler's awareness sharpened, not outward toward the room, but inward toward the new lever now connected to his existing system.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Information assembled itself methodically.
Not creating emotions.Not planting feelings where none existed.
Adjusting intensity.
Turning volume up or down.
Anger could be dulled.Confidence could be strengthened.Fear could be softened.Guilt could be pressed heavier or lighter.
The ability slid into place as an extension not a replacement of what he already had. Thought Manipulation had always nudged direction. Emotional Influence would make the path easier to follow.
Voluntary use only.
Unstable.
Tempting.
Tyler exhaled slowly through his nose.
He didn't feel excited. He didn't feel afraid.
Every year or two, he noted. Something new.
He didn't know how the knowledge arrived only that it did. He didn't remember learning these rules. They were simply there, embedded as if they'd always belonged to him.
The teacher called his name.
"Tyler?"
He looked up immediately. "Yes."
"Can you read the next line?"
He did. His voice was steady, unaffected. No one noticed the faint tension he kept locked behind his eyes.
As the lesson continued, Tyler conducted a quiet inventory.
Thought Reading—passive. Always on. Surface-level noise he'd long since learned to filter. A hum he lived with.
Thought Manipulation—Stage One. Voluntary. Subtle. Insert hesitation. Delay speech. Blur intent. Reliable, but costly if overused.
Mind Search—active. Focused. Short-range. One person at a time. Useful. Dangerous.
And now Emotional Influence—Stage Two. An upgrade. A multiplier.
He felt it respond faintly to nearby emotional currents, like a muscle he hadn't flexed yet. A warning pricked at the back of his mind: this one would be easy to misuse.
Tyler straightened in his seat.
He had no intention of letting it leak.
The bell rang shortly after.
By the time Tyler reached home that afternoon, the pressure had faded completely, leaving behind the familiar sense of quiet control. He placed his school bag by the door and went to his room, changing clothes with efficient movements.
The guitar case caught his eye.
He paused, fingers brushing the latch, then stepped away. There would be time later.
In the living room, Melissa was gathering her keys.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yes," Tyler replied.
Before they could leave, Vanessa appeared from the hallway.
"I can take him," she said lightly.
Melissa hesitated, then smiled. "If you're sure."
Vanessa nodded. "Of course."
Tyler looked up at her.
Her thoughts surfaced immediately unrelated to him.
If I leave now, I can meet them before it gets crowded.Just a short stop.
Tyler's expression didn't change.
"It's okay," he said to Melissa.
Melissa nodded, satisfied. "Don't be late."
"We won't," Vanessa replied.
As they stepped outside, Tyler felt the new ability stir not on its own, but in response to Vanessa's split focus. The emotional thread was there: mild anticipation, a hint of anxiety about being seen.
He didn't touch it.
They walked a short distance in silence before Tyler spoke.
"Do you meet your friends often?"
Vanessa slowed slightly. "Friends?"
"You said you were going out," Tyler said, tone casual.
Her thoughts hitched.
Why is he asking?He shouldn't know that.
"Oh," she said smoothly. "Sometimes."
Tyler glanced up at her. "You should meet them."
For a heartbeat, confusion sharpened into something closer to alarm.
The new ability tugged at him, offering an easy nudge just enough to deepen that hesitation, to make her second-guess herself.
Tyler didn't take it.
Vanessa recovered quickly, but not completely. "That's… thoughtful of you."
"You might get bored otherwise," Tyler added.
She studied him now, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
Be careful, her thoughts warned her.
Tyler looked away, the corner of his mouth lifting imperceptibly.
The academy came into view soon after.
Inside, the air smelled of wood and polish. Children gathered in small clusters, instruments held awkwardly. Two adults stood at the front a woman with alert eyes and a man leaning casually against a stand.
The woman noticed Tyler immediately.
"Hello," she said, crouching slightly. "I'm Mira."
"Tyler," he replied.
She smiled. "First class?"
"Yes."
Vanessa exchanged a few polite words, then turned to leave. As she did, Tyler caught a last flicker of thought.
I still have time.
The door closed behind her.
Tyler joined the other children, taking a seat near the middle. Curious glances drifted toward him his eyes, always his eyes but he ignored them.
"Alright," the man said, clapping once. "I'm Aaron. We're not here to be good yet. We're here to start."
The lesson began simply.
Posture. Grip. Sound.
Tyler listened intently. His fingers found the correct positions almost immediately not through practice, but recognition. He adjusted himself consciously, deliberately introducing small errors. A wrong angle. A delayed correction.
Mira watched him for a moment longer than the others.
"You understand quickly," she said.
Tyler nodded. "I listen."
She smiled. "That helps."
As imperfect notes filled the room, Tyler played carefully, holding himself back.
The new ability rested quietly beneath the surface, patient.
Waiting.
And for the first time that day, Tyler felt the familiar tension return not fear, not excitement, but responsibility.
Every year, something new arrived.
And every year, it became harder to pretend he was just a child.
The first week passed quietly.
Too quietly, in some ways.
Music class became a recurring marker in Tyler's schedule an event fixed enough that the days began to orient themselves around it. School in the mornings, homework in the afternoons, guitar in the evenings. The repetition was comforting, predictable.
Internally, it was anything but.
By the end of the second lesson, Tyler already knew he was far ahead of where he should be.
Not because he was talented.
Because once he saw something done correctly, it stuck.
Finger placement, string pressure, transitions between chords his mind absorbed them instantly, replaying the information with mechanical precision. The second wish worked quietly, relentlessly, compressing effort into understanding.
If he wanted to, he could have played cleanly within days.
He didn't.
He forced his hands to hesitate. Delayed corrections he could make without thinking. Let notes buzz when he knew how to stop them. He watched the teachers carefully, measuring their reactions.
Mira noticed first.
Not in alarm. In curiosity.
"You're adjusting faster than most," she said during one lesson, kneeling beside him. "But you're holding back."
Tyler looked up at her, expression neutral. "I'm still learning."
She studied him for a moment, then smiled. "Fair enough."
Aaron noticed later.
He said nothing at first, just watched Tyler's hands a little longer than the others. When Tyler intentionally fumbled a transition he could execute flawlessly, Aaron's brow creased.
Interesting, his thoughts murmured faintly, carried by the ambient noise Tyler filtered automatically. But no suspicion followed. No pressure.
Good.
Tyler kept the balance carefully enough improvement to look promising, not enough to stand out.
The physical pain faded quickly. Calluses formed within days, not weeks. By the end of the first month, his fingers no longer burned. He pretended they still did, shaking them out after class when the others complained.
"This is hard," one boy groaned, flexing his hands dramatically.
Tyler nodded in agreement. "Yeah."
He didn't lie often.
Just selectively.
The new ability stayed quiet but not dormant.
Emotional Influence didn't announce itself the way the others had. It didn't push or intrude. It waited, responding subtly whenever Tyler's attention brushed against emotional currents around him.
At first, it was disorienting.
He'd feel a faint pull when a child grew frustrated, a pressure when someone's confidence wavered. Not enough to change anything on its own but enough to remind him how easily he could.
Once, during class, a girl beside him struggled to keep rhythm. Her frustration spiked, sharp and unfocused.
Tyler felt the instinctive tug.
A small suppression. Just enough to ease the edge.
He stopped himself immediately.
The sensation faded, leaving behind a faint echo like a muscle flexed and released.
Not yet, he told himself.
He didn't want this ability to become reflexive. Thought Manipulation had taught him how dangerous that was. Emotional Influence felt… smoother. Easier.
That made it worse.
At home, the atmosphere shifted gradually.
Not in any single moment just small changes stacking quietly.
Melissa hummed while cooking more often. Sometimes she stopped mid-task, hand resting against the counter, smiling to herself for no clear reason. Viola criticized less and planned more, her attention drifting toward the future instead of correcting the present.
Steven came home with energy to spare.
He talked about work without the tension that had once sharpened his voice. Jokes lasted longer. Laughter came easier. Vanessa mirrored it effortlessly, her presence filling rooms with practiced warmth.
Everything's lining up, her thoughts repeated softly, over and over.
Richard adjusted in his own way.
He worked steadily, but there was less urgency in his movements now. He sat at the table longer after dinner, listening instead of retreating. Pamela stayed close to him, her posture easing, her thoughts no longer circling self-doubt.
This is good, she reminded herself quietly. I can do this.
Tyler noticed how often she glanced at Vanessa not with suspicion, but comparison. The feeling wasn't resentment. Not yet.
It was awareness.
Dinner conversations changed too.
They weren't secretive but they were careful.
"We'll talk about it later," Steven said more than once, catching himself mid-sentence.
"Yes, after that," Viola replied another evening, eyes flicking briefly toward Tyler before continuing with a different topic.
Melissa paused more often than usual, thoughts folding inward before resurfacing in safer forms.
Soon, her mind whispered. Just not yet.
Tyler smiled politely every time.
He didn't need them to explain.
He already recognized the pattern.
Months passed.
Music class became easier to hide in.
Tyler progressed at a steady, believable pace. Enough that Mira praised his consistency. Enough that Aaron nodded approvingly when Tyler finally allowed a clean transition to show through.
"You're starting to trust your hands," Aaron said.
Tyler nodded. "Yes."
That wasn't entirely false.
At school, nothing unusual happened. Lessons continued. Friends argued about trivial things. Teachers praised Tyler for reliability, not brilliance.
He liked it that way.
One afternoon, as he practiced in the living room, Melissa leaned against the doorway, watching quietly.
"You've been practicing every day," she said.
Tyler adjusted his grip slightly, intentionally sloppy this time. "I like it."
She smiled. "I can tell."
Her thoughts fluttered warmly, wrapped around something unspoken.
He's happy.That matters.
She hesitated, as if about to say more, then turned back toward the kitchen.
Tyler watched her go.
He could have nudged that warmth. Amplified it. Made the house glow brighter.
He didn't.
By the third month, the change was unmistakable.
Not to outsiders but to him.
The house felt lighter. Conversations flowed with less effort. Even arguments ended quickly, dissolving into laughter instead of silence.
Vanessa moved with quiet confidence now, her presence sharper, more central.
This month, her thoughts circled. Everything depends on this month.
Steven's joy had deepened into something steadier.
Viola's planning resumed subtle, cautious, restrained.
Pamela watched it all with a mix of genuine happiness and something harder to name.
I really am happy for her, she insisted to herself. I am.
Tyler believed her.
One evening, as he packed his guitar away, voices drifted from the dining room.
"We should wait," someone said.
"Yes. Just a little longer."
Tyler closed the case gently.
He sat on his bed for a moment, fingers resting on the latch, feeling the weight of time pressing softly against him.
He knew this month.
Not because of prophecy.
Because he'd lived through it once before.
Different house.Different details.Same shape.
The shape of anticipation.The shape of happiness that didn't yet understand itself.
Tyler lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The new ability rested quietly within him, fully integrated now another tool, another temptation.
He hadn't used it.
Not on Vanessa.Not on the house.Not on the warmth settling into everyone's bones.
Let it be real, he thought.
Outside, laughter carried faintly through the hallway. Plates clinked. Someone called his name, asking if he was hungry.
Tyler stood, smoothing his expression before stepping out.
He joined them at the table, listened to the easy conversation, watched smiles form and fade.
And as the month moved forward, carrying joy with it, Tyler allowed himself to live inside it fully aware of what it was.
And what always followed.