The sun poured golden light across the kitchen, casting long stripes of shadow across the polished counter. Stephen sat at the table, chin propped in one hand, watching the way the light danced on the hardwood floor as Mark burst into the room.
"Where's my toast? I need to fuel up," Mark said dramatically, already halfway through pouring cereal instead.
"You need toast and cereal?" Stephen asked without looking up.
Mark grinned. "I'm a growing hero."
"More like a hungry one."
Nolan sat at the far end of the table with a newspaper—an outdated habit, but one he hadn't given up. He read silently, eyes scanning, only occasionally sipping his coffee. The paper never rustled. He turned pages like they were made of glass.
Debbie moved about the kitchen with her usual quiet efficiency, already dressed for the day but still barefoot. Her hair was tied back loosely, and she had a mug of tea in hand, forgotten on the edge of the sink as she moved between slicing fruit and checking the toaster.
The house had a rhythm this morning. The kind Stephen was starting to recognize. Something had shifted. Mark wasn't just "powered" anymore—he was engaged. Busy. Focused. And louder than ever.
"…and then the guy tried to hit me with a steel beam, but the suit held. Barely even felt it. I think I could've gone another round," Mark was saying between bites, spoon rattling in his bowl.
Stephen stirred his tea absently. "You fight like you talk—too much."
Mark gave him a look. "I'm building morale. Let me have my moment."
"You've had three this week."
"Yeah, and you've had none. Not since the pigeon."
Stephen flinched. "It was one time. And I didn't mean to launch it."
"You launched it. Into a tree. I think it's still mad at you."
Nolan's voice was low but calm. "Mark. Less gloating. Stephen. More control."
Debbie's brow furrowed as she set a plate down in front of each of them. "You two are not allowed to weaponize wildlife."
Stephen smirked and turned back to his plate. "I'll do my best."
A quiet beat passed. Mark scarfed his breakfast like he was in a time trial. Stephen, more methodically, tore through his eggs and toast, each bite part of a calculation.
The morning sun moved inch by inch across the table. Stephen's spoon twitched. Not on purpose.
Nolan noticed. His eyes didn't move, but Stephen felt the change in attention. A barely perceptible weight in the air.
Mark leaned back in his chair. "So, what's on your schedule today, Stephen? Gonna hover a spoon again?"
Stephen took a sip of tea and met his gaze calmly. "Nah. Thought I'd actually start testing my limits today."
Mark blinked. "Like?"
Stephen stood. "You'll see."
He didn't wait for Mark's follow-up. He could already feel the energy pulling him—outside, into the sun, into the open space where the world didn't shrink around him. Where control didn't feel like a performance. It felt like breathing.
_ _ ♛ _ _
The backyard felt different every time Stephen stepped into it.
Not because the lawn changed or the birdsong was any different—but because he changed. Every day, the lines between what he could do and what he should do blurred just a little more.
The grass was already marked with faint divots from where pebbles had launched skyward or dumbbells had been dragged out for testing. He stepped barefoot onto the warm ground, feeling the charge buzz faintly under his skin.
He exhaled slowly. The air shimmered in the heat. The sun hit his back.
He sat, cross-legged.
A single pebble rested on the grass in front of him.
"Okay," he whispered. "Let's talk."
His bio-electric aura responded like a stirred breeze—soft at first, then stronger. He focused on the pebble, imagining it not as an object to move, but as part of himself. Something within reach of his will.
It lifted. A soft, trembling hover, like it wasn't sure if it wanted to trust him yet.
Stephen held the feeling.
Then, he reached for another one. It twitched—just a little.
Balance.
He stretched, gently spreading the field. One pebble rose, the second one joining it, both hovering in lazy orbits.
Then—too much.
They rocketed upward.
Stephen groaned. "Every. Time."
_ _ ♛ _ _
Mark sat on the porch railing, arms crossed. "You ever think maybe you're secretly telekinetic, but only for objects with aerodynamic shame?"
Stephen tilted his head. "You mean like your ego?"
Mark snorted. "Touché."
Stephen stood and rolled his shoulders. "Seriously though, I am getting better."
"I know. I saw you lift that dumbbell yesterday. Pretty sure Mom almost dropped her coffee."
Stephen laughed softly. "It was for science."
Mark's grin faded a little. "Be careful, okay?"
Stephen blinked.
"I mean it," Mark added, eyes serious now. "You're strong. Really strong. But the more you push, the more it'll push back."
There was something unspoken there. Something Mark couldn't name yet, but felt anyway.
Stephen just nodded. "Yeah."
_ _ ♛ _ _
That night, the stars were thick. No moon. Just the wash of light and shadow over rooftops and treetops.
Inside, the house was quiet—Mark upstairs, probably asleep, and Stephen in his room, fingers still twitching slightly from hours of control drills.
Downstairs, Debbie stood by the kitchen window, rinsing the last of the dishes. The faucet whispered. Her tea steamed nearby, untouched.
The night air was still.
The kind of stillness that came just after the house fell asleep. No more footsteps. No more rustling. Just the hum of appliances, and the ticking of the kitchen clock that Debbie always swore she would replace.
She stood at the sink, arms folded, watching the moonlight gleam across the backyard where Stephen had trained earlier. From this distance, the grass still held the faint scuff marks from where pebbles had launched too far or books had crashed mid-hover. But what held her focus was the tree. A single, dark trunk in the middle of their yard.
There were two small dents in its bark.
Stephen hadn't told her he'd embedded stones in it with his mind.
But he didn't have to. She saw the marks. She always saw the marks.
Behind her, Nolan stepped into the kitchen without a sound. He never made a sound when he walked. Not because he was being stealthy, but because he was Viltrumite. Because he didn't have to make noise if he didn't want to.
That alone had taken her years to stop noticing. But tonight, she noticed.
He said nothing at first. Just stood near the table, eyes following hers.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"Stephen's getting stronger."
Debbie didn't look at him. "I know."
"He's adapting faster than I thought."
Still, she didn't speak.
A beat passed. Then, finally—softly—"Is this why you're scared?"
That made him pause. His arms lowered. "Yes."
Debbie turned, slowly. Her expression was unreadable.
"You told me once," she began, "that your people were peacekeepers. That Viltrumites travelled across the stars to help civilizations evolve. To protect."
"I did."
She walked over to the counter, rested her fingers on its edge. "And that was a lie."
Nolan didn't deny it. "Yes."
It wasn't anger in her voice. Not bitterness, either. It was quieter. Slower. Something more dangerous.
"You looked me in the eye and told me a story about noble warriors. About helping the weak stand up for themselves." Her jaw clenched. "You said that was why you came here. Why you stayed."
Nolan said nothing.
"Do you remember when you finally told me the truth?" she asked. "It was raining. You'd just put Stephen to bed. He was seven. Mark was asleep in his room. And you—"
"I had blood on my shirt," Nolan said, quietly.
Debbie nodded. "Not from anyone you fought. From a man you rescued from a building collapse. You told me how fragile he felt in your hands."
"I was shaken," Nolan admitted. "I hadn't expected to care."
That was the moment. She remembered it exactly. The way he sat at the edge of the kitchen table, back straight, hands tight around a half-full glass of scotch that he didn't drink. How he told her—calmly, almost clinically—about the Viltrumite Empire. About its mission. About the culling of the weak. The conquest of the strong. The systematic absorption of planets deemed worthy.
How Earth had never stood a chance.
Debbie had said nothing for a long time.
And Nolan, to his credit, had waited.
Finally, she had asked: "So what stopped you?"
He looked at her then, not like a soldier or a god—but like a man who had lost something.
"You," he had said. "You and the boys."
And then she had walked away.
Not out of anger.
But because she didn't know if she'd ever believe him again.
Now, back in the kitchen, years later, Debbie looked at him with eyes that had healed—mostly.
"You've been trying to protect them ever since," she said softly. "I've seen it. Even if you don't know how."
"I don't want them to be what I was raised to be," Nolan said.
Her voice wavered just slightly. "And Stephen?"
A pause.
Nolan looked out the window. His hand lifted, fingers curling slightly—like he wanted to touch the glass, but stopped himself.
"I've never seen anything like him, I even dough in to old files thinking he was taken over by polaris" he said finally. "He's not just strong. He's not just Viltrumite. He's... something else. Something new. And he doesn't even know it yet."
"But you do," Debbie said.
Nolan's gaze darkened. "If Viltrum learns about him, they'll come. Not to take him. To dissect him. Study him. And then..." He shook his head. "They'll purge the planet. Nothing that powerful stays unmonitored."
Debbie closed her eyes.
And Nolan did something rare.
He reached out. Touched her wrist. Just once.
"I didn't tell you to hurt you," he said. "I told you because I couldn't carry it alone anymore."
Her throat tightened. But she didn't pull away.
"What do we do?" she whispered.
"We keep them close," Nolan said. "We teach them what we can. And we prepare them for the moment when they're not just fighting for themselves—but for the world."
Debbie nodded once.
Then, gently, she turned her hand over and took his.
"I forgave you a long time ago, Nolan," she said quietly. "But I never forgot."
He looked at her. And in his silence, there was more love than in any words he'd ever spoken aloud.
"I know," he said.
They stood there for a while. In the quiet. Together.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Stephen's room was dark except for the soft glow of a desk lamp. His textbooks were open, though untouched. On the far side of his room, a few pebbles floated in uneven, slow orbits above a folded hoodie.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at his open palms.
Strength.
It lived in his skin. In his bones. In every breath.
He was still thinking about the weight he'd lifted earlier. The way it hadn't even registered as heavy. Like gravity didn't apply to him the same way it used to.
He liked the sun. The warmth. The way it made the energy in his body more manageable. But he also noticed how he wasn't tired like before. Not really. He hadn't needed sleep in days. His appetite was strange—he ate, but it never felt urgent.
He rubbed his thumb over his palm. Carefully. Trying to gauge pressure. He thought about holding hands with someone. A friend. A teammate.
How do I know what's too much?
There wasn't a class for that.
There wasn't a weight limit to love.
Just as he was drifting into that spiral of thought, there was a knock at the door.
It opened before he could answer.
Mark peeked in.
"Hey," he said. "You still up?"
Stephen nodded. "Always."
Mark stepped inside, holding something behind his back.
"I brought you something."
Stephen raised an eyebrow. "If it's another 'congratulations on being the floating pebble king' mug, I'm throwing it."
Mark grinned and pulled out... a small sketchpad.
Stephen blinked.
"I saw you doodling the other day," Mark said, setting it on his desk. "I know you don't really do stuff for fun, but... I dunno. Thought maybe you could use something that's not training or science."
Stephen picked up the pad slowly.
"Thanks," he said. Quiet. But sincere.
Mark leaned on the wall, crossing his arms. "You know... I meant what I said earlier. I am proud of you. Doesn't matter if your powers are different. You're gonna be amazing."
Stephen looked at him. "You mean that?"
"Of course," Mark said. "You're my little brother. I'd take on half the galaxy for you."
Stephen smiled faintly. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
They shared a look.
One full of memories. Of trust. Of all the things unsaid but deeply understood.
Then Mark straightened.
"Okay, I gotta sleep or Dad's gonna launch me through the ceiling at training tomorrow."
He ruffled Stephen's hair as he passed by. "Don't stay up too long."
Stephen waved him off.
The door closed.
And Stephen looked down at the sketchpad. His fingers traced the edge.
Then, softly, he smiled.
Maybe this was what his power was for.
Not to destroy.
Not to conquer.
But to protect what mattered.
And for now... that was enough.
End of Chapter 28