Super strength

The bear's muscles tensed.

It charged.

Kyle barely had time to register the motion before Maya screamed and ducked behind him, gripping his shirt with both hands.

And then—something broke inside him.

A wall. A gate. A floodgate of fire.

A surge.

Power rushed into his limbs like lightning, lighting up every nerve. His spine arched. His fingers curled into fists so tight he felt the skin stretch.

He felt the ground beneath him.

Felt the bear's weight—its direction, its speed, its mass.

And something else: no fear. Just clarity.

As the bear lunged, jaws wide, teeth gleaming in the sunlight, ready to crush bones. Kyle moved.

Fast.

Faster than thought.

He twisted sideways, avoiding the bite by inches, and punched.

His fist slammed into the bear's jaw—not with human strength, but something more. Something other.

There was a crack. Not from his hand—from the bear.

Its lower jaw snapped, bone splitting like splintered wood. It screamed in animal agony, staggering backward, eyes wide.

Kyle blinked.

His fist was still raised.

The bear staggered once. Then fell—twisting violently into the dirt, moaning, twitching.

Dead.

Kyle stood frozen, his chest heaving.

Around him, the forest had gone silent. No birds. No wind. Just the faint crackling of the bus's engine cooling.

Maya stared at the body of the bear, eyes wide with something between awe and terror.

Kyle turned slowly to her.

She whispered, "What… what are you?"

He looked down at his hands.

Felt the blood still rushing through his arms like jet fuel.

"I don't know," he said. She didn't know what he was, but she knew he was not normal. Just, like, her. After a surge of strength unimaginable pain followed, Kyle could barely endure it.

Time slowly passed, then the sounds of the crash began to return—groans, sobs, panicked voices.

Students crawling from the wreckage.

Some limped. Some cried. One girl was shouting for her phone.

Kyle ran to the bus, pulling open a bent emergency hatch. Inside, he saw Mr. Jenkins—conscious but bleeding heavily from the scalp. A few other kids were trying to wake up a boy who had hit his head. One girl had a broken arm.

Kyle began helping them out, one by one, his muscles still humming with pain.

Maya followed quietly, still pale.

As they waited for help—someone had finally gotten a signal out—Kyle found himself pacing the perimeter of the crash.

His mind couldn't stop replaying it.

The surge.

The strike.

The snap.

Whatever had awakened inside him wasn't adrenaline. It was something deeper, older.

And Maya—what had she seen?

He turned to her as she sat alone on a moss-covered boulder.

"You saw something after the crash, didn't you?" he asked.

She didn't look up.

"I saw you hit that bear… Just like before on the bus. Before it even happened.

"And the other bear?"

She finally looked up. Her voice trembled.

"I don't think that bear died from the crash. Something… took from it. Like it was drained. I think it was you."

Kyle's jaw tightened.

"What?" He asked. But Maya went silent, as if she was still processing what had happened.

They heard the wolves later that evening—distant, howling in uneven rhythm.

No one slept. The students sat huddled near the smoldering remains of the bus while two teachers with minor injuries did roll call and tried to keep order. There was a moment of silence for those who didn't make it.

Kyle sat at the edge of the group, eyes scanning the dark.

Maya joined him. She didn't say anything.

The forest was silent now.

Where chaos had once roared—crashing metal, shouts, and that unearthly sound of the bear's final howl—there was only the hush of trees breathing in dusk. Kyle sat on the cold earth, knees scraped, a thin layer of blood dried across his forehead. The pain in his ribs throbbed with every breath, but he barely noticed. His eyes stayed locked on the distant tree line, where the grizzly had come from. Where it had died.

Not from a bullet.

Not from a tranquilizer.

From him.

He still didn't understand it. One second, death had been sprinting toward him and Maya. The next, something had snapped in his body—like a rubber band pulled too tight—and then… release. Power, hot and bright, had surged through his arms. And with one strike, he'd done the impossible.

He wasn't sure if anyone saw it. No one had screamed "monster" or "mutant." No phones had been pointed at him, no cameras blinking. But there had been blood. The grizzly's jaw lay split open like a cracked coconut. His shirt was torn where the bear's teeth had brushed his chest.

That was when the flashing red lights arrived.

Sirens echoed across the hills.

Kyle hadn't moved as the rescue team descended, their heavy boots crunching leaves, their vests crinkling with radios and gear. They moved fast—checking pulses, assessing wounds, counting heads. One of them—a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a wide grin—had bent beside Kyle and given him a bottle of water.

"You're lucky," the man said with a crooked smile, "any longer out here and the wolves would've smelled the blood. Past midnight? You kids would've been appetizers."

He chuckled. Kyle didn't.

The rest blurred. He remembered Maya being lifted onto a stretcher, her eyes half-open, mumbling something too soft to catch. He remembered someone calling names off a list, checking injuries, reporting status codes into a radio. A girl cried for her lost phone. A teacher vomited behind a tree.

Kyle's hands kept shaking. No one noticed.

By the time they reached the hospital, night had fully fallen.

Kyle was ushered through automatic glass doors under a cold wash of fluorescent light. A nurse checked his vitals. Another wiped the blood off his temple and said something about stitches, but Kyle couldn't concentrate. He kept clenching and unclenching his fist—half-expecting lightning to crack from his palm or bones to crack again.

Nothing. Just skin. Just a dull ache.

He was placed in a room. Hooked to monitors. Given something for the pain. He didn't sleep. He just stared at the wall and waited.

That's when the door creaked open and he heard her voice.

"Kyle?"

He blinked. Sat up fast. "Mom?"

Nora Carter rushed to his side, still in her gray office blazer and low heels, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun that had come undone in her rush. Her eyes were glassy, but no tears fell. She gripped his hand tightly.

"I came as soon as they called. Are you okay? Are you hurt? I mean really hurt?"

Kyle shook his head slowly. "I'm fine. I mean—some bruises. A few cuts. But I'm okay."