The boy who makes bubbles

Troy stared blankly at the clock as the seconds ticked by, each one stretching out like an eternity. He was sitting in his homeroom at Nightingale Academy for the Gifted, a prestigious school where the world's most powerful heroes were trained. The students here weren't just ordinary teenagers; they were the next generation of heroes, each one gifted with incredible powers. Well, most of them.

Troy was different. He was an F-Class student—the lowest class in the academy. The system at Nightingale ranked students based on the destruction their powers could cause. The more destruction, the higher your rank. Powers that could level cities or reshape the landscape were what the world valued. Heroes who could change the course of battles, or even history itself. And then there was Troy—who could create bubbles.

He tried not to think about it too much, but the whispers in the hallways and the mocking stares of his classmates constantly reminded him of how little he mattered. His abilities weren't even useful for a normal fight, let alone something that could save a city from destruction.

Around him, the classroom buzzed with the chatter of his fellow students, all of them talking about their powers and their hopes for the future.

"Hey, Troy," came a voice from across the room. Jackson, one of the top students in the class, flashed a cocky grin as he looked over at Troy. "What's it like to be in the F-Class? Must be rough not even being able to break a vase with your powers." His words were accompanied by the chuckles of his friends.

Troy's jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze fixed on the desk. He wasn't in the mood to fight back. Jackson was always the first to mock others, especially the weaker students. His powers were fire-based and powerful enough to incinerate entire forests with a single thought. To him, anyone without such destructive abilities was worthless.

Before Troy could respond, the teacher, Ms. Everly, entered the room. She was an A-Class hero who had the ability to manipulate time. She was a little more understanding of the lower-tiered students, but even her sympathy didn't make Troy feel any better about his standing. He was still just the kid who could barely make a bubble big enough to catch a falling pencil.

"Alright, class," Ms. Everly said, glancing around the room. "Today, we'll continue working on honing your abilities. I want you to focus on creating something impactful. Something that truly affects the environment around you. Remember, the more change you create, the more powerful your abilities are considered. Understand?"

The class nodded, and Troy's heart sank. He wasn't sure if he even could create something impactful. His bubbles were so small, so weak. How could something as insignificant as that ever affect the world around him?

When it came time for his turn, Troy stood up and walked to the center of the room, feeling the weight of every eye in the class on him. He stood still, trying to calm his nerves, focusing on the simple, familiar motion of creating a bubble. His hands trembled slightly as he stretched them out.

Nothing happened.

He felt the familiar flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. He tried again, pushing harder, concentrating on his desire to do something—anything—that would make a difference. But once again, nothing.

The class began to murmur, some students snickering under their breath. Troy could feel the judgment in their eyes, but it wasn't the whispers that stung the most. It was the realization that he might never be good enough. That he would always be the kid who couldn't even make a bubble that mattered.

"Troy," Ms. Everly said softly, her voice full of understanding. "It's alright. Keep practicing. Your time will come."

But Troy could hardly hear her. The words felt hollow. He nodded quietly and walked back to his seat, head down.

As the class moved on, the others performed their demonstrations—Jackson, with his explosive flames, Carter, the shadow manipulator, and even Emily, whose telekinesis could move entire buildings with a mere thought. Each one of them was doing what heroes were supposed to do: demonstrating raw power.

And then there was Troy—standing on the sidelines, watching the others shine, feeling smaller and smaller with every passing moment.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. Troy gathered his things slowly, feeling the weight of his failure pressing down on him. He had tried so hard to be something more, but no matter how much he practiced, he was always the weakest one in the class. The F-Class.

As he walked down the crowded hallway toward the exit, he couldn't help but overhear the whispers again. This time, it was Jackson, laughing with his friends.

"F-Class can't even get a decent power," Jackson sneered, just loud enough for Troy to hear. "Maybe he should quit wasting everyone's time."

Troy's heart sank further. His fingers twitched involuntarily, and small bubbles popped around his fingertips. He forced them back into control, trying not to cry.

Outside the school, the cold evening air hit him as he walked home, his mind replaying the events of the day. His father's words echoed in his head, reminding him of why he was here—to be a hero. To be someone who could make a difference. But the more he thought about it, the harder it became to believe in himself.

As he passed through a narrow alley on his way home, Troy heard the sound of a struggle—a scream, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. His heart raced as he turned toward the alley, instinctively moving closer to see if he could help.

There, in the shadows, he saw something that made his blood run cold. A man, larger than life, stood in front of a mugger, his silhouette casting a long shadow in the dim light. He was dressed in a heroic suit, gleaming with the light of justice. Troy froze. It was the greatest hero of all StarMan —the man who had saved cities, defeated villains, and inspired thousands.

The mugger, terrified, dropped to his knees, begging for his life. But the hero didn't show mercy. Troy's breath caught in his throat as he watched the hero break the criminal's arms in one swift motion. The mugger screamed in pain, but it was only the beginning.

Then the hero's eyes glowed red, and with a chilling, deliberate motion, he crushed the criminal's head beneath his boot, silencing his cries forever. Blood splattered across the alley, staining the hero's costume.

Troy fell back against the wall, his mind reeling. This was the hero he had looked up to all his life. The symbol of peace, the embodiment of justice. And yet, in that moment, he wasn't the hero Troy had always imagined. He was something darker.

The hero's gaze shifted toward him, and Troy's heart pounded in his chest. The hero stepped closer, covered in blood, his footsteps slow and purposeful.

Troy could barely breathe, his body trembling as the hero approached. And then, in a low voice that sent a chill down Troy's spine, the hero spoke:

"There's a loose end. I guess it's your unlucky day, kid."

Troy stared up at him, fear and confusion clouding his mind. How could this be happening? This was the hero who had always been his inspiration, the one he dreamed of becoming.

And yet, in that moment, he realized that the world was not as black-and-white as he had been taught.