Cameras flashed like lightning.
The world was watching.
Sir Ferguson stood behind the podium, hands resting calmly on either side, his posture composed, his expression carefully measured. Behind him, the emblem of the agency he represented was displayed prominently:
The Department of Anomalous Response and Control.
DARC.
A name chosen not for comfort—but for authority.
The room was packed.
Journalists. Officials. Security.
And beyond that room—
Millions watching across the globe.
Ferguson adjusted the microphone slightly.
Then began.
"Three days ago," he said, his voice steady, "our world experienced an घटना unlike anything in recorded history."
The room fell completely silent.
"Lives were lost. Families were broken. And communities were shaken to their core."
He paused briefly.
Not for effect.
For weight.
"On behalf of the government, I extend our deepest condolences to every family affected by this tragedy… and our unwavering support to those still fighting to recover."
Somewhere in the crowd, a camera zoomed in.
Capturing every detail.
Every flicker.
Every breath.
Ferguson continued.
"At this time, we are still investigating the nature of the incident. We do not yet have definitive answers regarding what caused the phenomenon now being referred to as the 'Shift.'"
A murmur passed through the room.
He didn't acknowledge it.
"But what we do know," he added, his tone sharpening slightly, "is that this event has had… unusual effects on certain individuals."
Now the tension rose.
"We are aware of reports regarding enhanced abilities among survivors. These reports are being taken seriously and are under active investigation."
Carefully worded.
Deliberately vague.
Controlled.
A hand shot up.
"Sir Ferguson!" a journalist called out. "Are you confirming the existence of superhumans?"
Another voice followed immediately.
"Are these individuals dangerous?"
"Is the public at risk?"
"Is this a biological threat?"
Ferguson raised a hand.
Just slightly.
And the room quieted.
"We are not dealing with speculation," he said firmly. "We are dealing with an evolving situation. Until we understand it fully, any assumptions—by the media or the public—would be irresponsible."
"That's not an answer!" someone pushed.
"Are these people being detained?"
Ferguson's expression didn't change.
"I will not comment on operational procedures at this time."
More voices rose.
More questions.
More pressure.
And then—
Ferguson stepped back.
"Thank you," he said.
And walked off.
No further explanation.
No reassurance.
Just controlled exit.
Backstage, the noise faded into a dull echo.
Ferguson loosened his tie slightly as he walked.
His secretary caught up with him quickly.
"How did that go?" he asked without looking at her.
She exhaled.
"As good as it could, sir."
He gave a small nod.
"Which means not good enough."
She didn't argue.
Because she knew—
He was right.
Far beneath the city…
Hidden behind reinforced steel and layers of security clearance…
The truth lived.
The underground facility hummed with energy—both mechanical and human.
Rows of observation areas.
Glass partitions.
Containment zones.
People.
Dozens of them.
Some excited.
Some afraid.
Some… broken.
A young man hovered a few inches above the ground, laughing nervously as he struggled to control his balance.
"I'm actually flying—this is insane!"
Across the room, another individual stretched their arm unnaturally, watching it extend with a mixture of fascination and horror.
A woman sat alone in the corner, staring at her hands, trembling.
"…This isn't real…" she whispered repeatedly.
Then—
The doors opened.
Sir Ferguson stepped in.
Flanked by armed security.
The room shifted instantly.
Conversations died down.
Eyes turned.
Authority had entered.
Ferguson walked forward slowly, surveying them all.
"…You've all been through something unprecedented," he began.
No microphone.
No cameras.
Just truth—filtered, but closer to real.
"What happened to you… what's happening to you… is not yet fully understood."
Silence.
Tension.
"But we are here to ensure your safety. And the safety of others."
A man sitting quietly in the back stood up.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His face was tight with anger.
"When are we getting out of here?"
The room shifted again.
All eyes moved to him.
Ferguson remained calm.
"We are still assessing—"
"When?" the man snapped, stepping forward. "You keeping us here like prisoners or what?"
Ferguson's jaw tightened slightly.
"You are not prisoners."
"Really?" the man scoffed. "Because it feels a lot like it."
His voice rose.
"I've got a wife. Two kids. They don't even know if I'm alive!"
A murmur spread among the others.
Agreement.
Fear.
Frustration.
Ferguson stepped forward.
"We understand your concerns—"
"No, you don't!" the man shouted.
His fist clenched.
And then—
Fire ignited around it.
Not imagined.
Not symbolic.
Real.
Flames wrapped around his hand, flickering violently as his emotions surged.
Gasps filled the room.
Some stepped back.
Others stared in awe.
Ferguson didn't move.
But for the first time—
He felt it.
Fear.
Real, undeniable fear.
The man's eyes burned.
"You think you can just lock us up because we're different now?"
The fire intensified.
Security shifted their stance.
Weapons ready.
But no one fired.
Because no one knew what would happen if they did.
Ferguson raised a hand slowly.
"Stand down," he said—not to the man.
To his own men.
The tension thickened.
Then—
Another individual stepped forward.
"Hey—hey, calm down," he said, raising both hands. "You're making it worse."
Others joined.
Trying to de-escalate.
"Think about your family, man."
"Don't do something you can't take back."
The man hesitated.
The flames flickered.
Then slowly—
Died down.
He stepped back, breathing heavily.
Ferguson didn't say another word.
He turned.
And walked out.
His secretary followed quickly.
"Sir—"
He didn't respond.
Not at first.
His expression was darker now.
Colder.
Controlled anger.
"They're unstable," she said carefully.
Ferguson stopped walking.
"…No," he said quietly.
"They're evolving."
And that was worse.
Back at the crash site…
Forensics teams worked in silence.
Carefully.
Precisely.
One of them knelt near a section of cracked asphalt.
"…You seeing this?" he called out.
Another approached.
"What is it?"
The first pointed.
A strange substance coated part of the ground.
Dark.
Shimmering.
It looked almost liquid—but didn't move.
Didn't behave like anything natural.
"It was spread during the shockwave," the first said. "We've found traces all over ground zero."
The second crouched lower.
"…Bag it."
Because whatever it was—
It didn't belong.
Kade adjusted his jacket as he stepped out of the hospital.
The air felt different.
Lighter.
But heavier at the same time.
Freedom.
After everything.
After death.
He flexed his fingers slightly.
Nothing unusual.
No strength surge.
No visible power.
Just… normal.
Too normal.
The doctors had run tests.
Again.
And again.
Nothing.
No anomalies.
No abilities.
No explanation.
A miracle.
That's what they called it.
Kade wasn't sure he believed that.
Behind him, hospital doors closed.
In front of him—
A world that had changed.
Even if he hadn't.
Elsewhere…
A call connected.
"He's clean," the voice said.
Sir Ferguson listened in silence.
"No detectable abilities. No anomalies. All tests came back negative."
A pause.
"…We're discharging him."
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then Ferguson spoke.
"Keep him on the radar."
"Sir?"
"From a distance," he clarified. "No direct interference."
Another pause.
"…Understood."
The line disconnected.
Ferguson stood still for a moment.
Thinking.
Then quietly—
"To come back from the dead…"
His gaze hardened slightly.
"…and be normal?"
He shook his head once.
"No," he muttered.
"That doesn't happen."