Chapter 6 : Calibration
Fourteen hours.
That's how long I lay on the floor before consciousness fully returned. Fourteen hours of fever dreams and muscle spasms and pain that ebbed and flowed like ocean tides. At some point I'd crawled to the bathroom to vomit again—I didn't remember doing it, but the evidence was there when I woke.
Morning light stabbed through the windows. My phone showed 12:47 PM. Day seven since waking up in Harrison Griffin's body.
I pushed myself to sitting. The movement sent fresh aches radiating through my chest and arms, but the burning from last night had faded. What remained felt different—a hum beneath my skin, a potential waiting to be tapped.
The system displayed my new status without being asked.
[POWER EQUIPPED: STRENGTH ENHANCEMENT] [POTENCY: 40% OF ORIGINAL] [SYNC RATE: 15%] [WARNING: LOW SYNC RATE — ACCIDENTAL ACTIVATION LIKELY]
I needed to test this.
The kitchen felt miles away. I shuffled there anyway, one hand on the wall for balance, and found a wooden dining chair. Solid oak, probably weighed thirty pounds. I'd moved it dozens of times in the past week without difficulty.
I gripped the backrest and lifted.
The chair came up easily—too easily. My arm barely registered the weight. But my fingers... my fingers didn't register anything at all.
The wood crumpled in my grip.
I stared at the splintered remains of the backrest. I hadn't squeezed hard. I hadn't even thought about squeezing. The strength had activated on its own, responding to the motion of lifting, compressing everything in my hand with force I couldn't control.
Splinters fell from my palm like snow. The chair was ruined.
Fifteen percent sync rate.
The system's warning made sense now. At this level of control, I was a danger to everything I touched. One wrong move during a handshake could crush bones. One reflexive grab could destroy whatever I was reaching for.
I needed training. Fast.
Day seven was an education in destruction.
Three coffee cups. A television remote. The bathroom door handle. Each one damaged by uncontrolled power bursts before I learned to anticipate and suppress the strength.
The suppression itself was exhausting. Constant mental effort to keep the ability dormant, to prevent it from activating during ordinary movements. By evening, I had a pounding headache and a garbage bag full of broken household items.
But the sync rate had improved. Barely.
[SYNC RATE: 17%]
Two percent in one day. At this pace, I'd need weeks to reach reliable control.
Day eight, I joined a gym.
The Central City Athletic Club was anonymous enough—chains that dotted every major city, populated by people who came to work out, not socialize. I paid cash for a month's membership, gave a fake name, and found an empty corner of the weight room.
The bench press was my first real test. I started with the bar alone—forty-five pounds. Easy. Normal human easy. No power activation.
I added plates. Ninety-five pounds. One thirty-five. One eighty-five. Each lift required careful monitoring, ensuring the strength stayed suppressed.
At two twenty-five, the suppression slipped.
The bar went up like it was made of paper. I caught myself mid-lift, clamping down on the power, but the damage was done. A guy three benches over was staring at me with his mouth open.
I racked the weight quickly, made a show of rubbing my shoulder like I'd tweaked something, and moved to a different machine. The guy kept watching for another minute before returning to his own workout.
Too easy. Too fast. I needed to be more careful.
The rest of day eight was controlled experimentation. Finding the edge between normal human effort and power-assisted movement. Learning to activate the strength deliberately rather than reflexively.
By closing time, I could lift three hundred pounds without anyone noticing something was wrong. My sync rate had crept up to twenty percent.
Progress. Slow, frustrating, absolutely necessary progress.
Day nine brought unexpected consequences.
I'd stopped at a corner store for protein bars—my caloric needs had increased dramatically since the extraction, and I was burning through food at an alarming rate—when I overheard two dock workers talking near the beer cooler.
"—heard Tank couldn't lift shit yesterday. Used to throw crates around like nothing, now he can barely manage the normal work."
"Someone said he's sick. Like, really sick. Lost all his muscle mass overnight."
"That ain't sick, man. That's something else. Something meta."
I kept my face neutral, selected my protein bars, and walked to the register.
"You hear about Tank?" the clerk asked, apparently eager to gossip. "Big guy who runs protection in the warehouse district? Word is he got hit by something. Lost his powers."
"Hadn't heard," I lied. "What happened?"
"Nobody knows. He woke up in an alley two nights ago, weak as a kitten. Can't do any of that super strength stuff anymore. Some people are saying there's a hunter—someone going after metas and taking their abilities."
"Sounds like a rumor."
"Yeah, maybe. But Tank's definitely changed. Saw him this morning. He looks... scared."
I paid for my protein bars and left.
The word was spreading. In three days, my actions had become street legend. The hunter. The meta-thief. The unknown threat stalking Central City's powered criminals.
Part of me appreciated the irony. Another part recognized the danger. If the rumors reached the wrong ears—STAR Labs, the CCPD's metahuman task force, the Flash himself—things could get complicated quickly.
I needed to be more careful with future extractions. Quieter. Less traceable.
But first, I needed to finish learning how to use what I'd already taken.
The gym's smoothie bar served something called a "Protein Power Punch" that tasted like banana mixed with chalk and desperation. I ordered two of them anyway, drinking them both while my muscles recovered from the morning's workout.
My body demanded fuel constantly now. Three meals had become six. Snacks between snacks. The strength enhancement burned calories even when inactive, maintaining the enhanced muscle density that made the power possible.
Small price to pay. Smaller than what Tank had paid.
I wondered if he'd recovered yet. If he'd figured out what happened to him. If he was looking for the person who'd stolen his power.
Probably not. Tank was a bully, not an investigator. He'd lost the thing that made him special, and bullies without power usually retreated rather than fought back. He'd find some other way to survive, or he wouldn't.
Either way, it wasn't my problem anymore.
[SYNC RATE: 25%]
Three days of training. Ten percent improvement. The power was becoming more reliable, easier to control. I could lift heavy weights without automatic activation, throw a punch without accidentally killing my target, handle everyday objects without crushing them.
Not perfect. But functional.
The next step was obvious. I needed more powers. More options. More tools for whatever challenges this universe threw at me.
And I knew exactly where to find them.
That night, I sat at my laptop and typed a name into the search bar: Dr. Caitlin Snow.
The results painted a picture. Stanford medical degree. Bioengineering specialty. Youngest person ever hired by STAR Labs. Engaged to Ronnie Raymond, reported dead in the particle accelerator explosion.
She was brilliant. Accomplished. Grieving.
And she worked at the center of Central City's metahuman activity.
STAR Labs was my ultimate destination. The Flash's support team had access to technology, information, and metahumans that I couldn't find anywhere else. Getting inside that circle would accelerate my progression exponentially.
Caitlin Snow was my way in.
I studied her published papers, her public social media presence, the few interviews she'd given before the explosion. Patterns emerged. She liked structure and routine. She processed grief through work. She trusted data more than emotion.
These were things I could work with.
The system pulsed at the edge of my vision.
[OBJECTIVE RECOMMENDATION: ACQUIRE ADDITIONAL POWERS] [POTENTIAL TARGETS IN CENTRAL CITY: 47] [STAR LABS ACCESS: PRIORITY TARGET]
For once, I agreed with its priorities.
But Tank had taught me something important. Extraction was violent, painful, and memorable. If I wanted to operate long-term, I needed to be smarter about target selection. Criminal metahumans who wouldn't be missed. Isolated encounters that left no witnesses. Methods that didn't spread rumors through the underworld.
The meta-hunter legend had already started. I couldn't unring that bell.
But I could control what came next.
My laptop screen glowed in the darkness. Caitlin Snow's face smiled from a two-year-old conference photo, standing beside a man I recognized as Ronnie Raymond.
She'd lost someone she loved. I'd lost my entire world.
We had that in common, at least.
I closed the laptop and started planning my approach.
MORE POWER STONES And REVIEWS== MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ In The Witcher With Avatar Powers,In The Vikings With Deja Vu System,Stranger Things Demogorgon Tamer ...].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!