Joren continued toward home, carrying a shopping bag with a small tear near the bottom.
The marbling on the sirloin was excellent.
Slow-searing it in butter and rosemary would keep it tender and juicy.
Potatoes, diced and boiled with broccoli in salted water — a simple, balanced side.
These were the important matters.
He was less than ten minutes from home when he stopped again.
Five men stepped into view.
Larger than the previous group.
Hard shoulders. Thick arms. Predatory posture.
The leader rested an aluminum baseball bat on his shoulder.
A thug with dyed green hair stepped forward, tilting his head as he sized Joren up.
The leader spoke lazily:
"Kid, Thompson raised the price. Says you're staying in the hospital for a month."
He tapped the bat against his shoulder.
"We don't want to get ugly. So pick where you want to lie down."
Again?
Joren sighed.
These people truly lacked learning ability.
Meanwhile…
Peter wandered the streets aimlessly.
The heightened senses and internal surges of power were pushing him toward collapse.
He slipped into an abandoned multi-story parking garage — quiet, empty, safe.
The energy inside him demanded release.
He stared at his hands.
Are these still mine?
An impulse surfaced.
He stepped toward a brick wall and threw a tentative punch.
Crack…
Hairline fractures spread outward from his knuckles.
Peter recoiled in horror.
Did he do that?
He stepped back, breathing hard.
Then he looked toward the second-floor platform.
Roughly four meters high.
He bent his knees.
Power surged into his legs.
He pushed off.
WHOOSH—
Wind roared past his ears.
The world blurred.
A heartbeat later, his feet landed solidly on the upper platform.
Peter stood frozen.
Heart hammering.
Half exhilaration.
Half fear.
Then his sharpened hearing caught something—
Shouting.
Impact.
A fight.
Nearby.
Uncle Ben's voice echoed in his memory:
With great power comes great responsibility.
An unfamiliar resolve filled him.
Peter bounded across rooftops and crouched at the edge of a building overlooking the street below.
What he saw stunned him.
Joren was surrounded.
Under the streetlights, five men closed in.
Joren exhaled softly.
"Hurry," he muttered.
"If we delay, the meat won't be fresh."
He carefully placed his grocery bag on a relatively clean step.
Then he lowered his hat brim.
The gang leader's face twisted in anger.
"You're dead!"
He swung the aluminum bat downward with both hands.
Joren stepped forward instead of back.
Just before impact, his palm met the center of the bat.
No collision.
A pale golden ripple flowed instantly along the metal.
Buzz—
"AH!"
The leader screamed as a numbing shock shot through his arms.
His grip failed.
The bat clattered to the pavement.
Joren moved.
A punch came from the side — he slipped it.
A body lunged from behind — he pivoted and drove backward with his shoulder.
"Ugh!"
The attacker flew several feet, rolling across the asphalt.
Above, Peter gripped the rooftop ledge.
He had been ready to throw debris to distract them.
But the fight was already beyond comprehension.
Joren's movements were too precise.
Too fast.
Too efficient.
Two thugs pressed against a metal fence, attempting to trap him.
Joren reached out and grasped the metal bar beside him.
Golden ripples surged.
Energy raced through the fence.
Sizzle—
"Aaaaah!"
The two men stiffened violently.
Their muscles locked.
They convulsed and collapsed, unconscious.
Joren had never touched them.
Peter's mouth parted in disbelief.
Static electricity?
Impossible.
The current required to incapacitate two adults would be lethal.
And he had seen it clearly:
Golden light flashed when Joren touched the fence.
Only the green-haired thug remained standing.
His ferocity was gone.
"Monster…!"
He hurled a dagger in panic.
Peter's heart lurched.
Too close.
No time to dodge—
Joren did not move.
He extended his index and middle fingers.
The spinning dagger stopped between them.
Caught.
At the instant of contact, Peter saw it:
A faint golden glow at Joren's fingertips.
Silence fell.
The fight had lasted less than thirty seconds.
Joren released the blade and let it fall.
He dusted his sleeve.
Then he returned to the steps and lifted his grocery bag, checking it carefully.
Good.
Still intact.
He spared no glance for the groaning men.
He turned and walked away beneath the streetlights.
Peter remained frozen on the rooftop.
The disintegrated chair.
The rising manhole cover.
Thompson crowned in creamy spaghetti.
The energy through the bat.
The men incapacitated through a fence.
Catching a blade barehanded.
All the events he had dismissed as coincidence now converged into a single truth.
Yet the answer only deepened the mystery.
What was that golden energy?
Everything he believed about physics and biology had just been overturned—
by one high school student carrying groceries home for dinner.