Staring into the shattered mirror on the wall, I watched my reflection warp into a strange golden prism, the geometric facets shifting like a broken kaleidoscope.
Rainwater dripped from the moldy plaster ceiling, tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against a rusty metal bucket in the corner of my Bowery hideout.
Cold draft swept through the cracked window pane, carrying the stench of wet garbage and diesel exhaust from the dark streets below.
My chest still throbbed with a dull, aching heat from the bio-electric surge I had used to jump-start my own heart hours earlier.
Every breath felt like inhaling ground glass, but there was no time to rest or recover.
In this volatile world of gods and monsters, weakness was an absolute death sentence.
Memories of my past life’s ultimate failure burned in my gut, a constant, bitter reminder of what happens to those who cannot protect themselves.
Watching my family die while I stood frozen and powerless had forged a cold, unyielding resolve within me: I would steal the powers of the gods themselves before I let anyone control my fate again.
Suddenly, the rhythmic tapping of the rain was cut short by a heavy, deliberate creak of the floorboards in the hallway outside.
Dust drifted down from the ceiling as footsteps approached, light but carrying a lethal, calculated purpose.
Instinctively, my hand drifted to my chest, feeling the frantic, irregular thump of my pulse.
Before I could even stand, the world exploded into a chaos of wood and fire.
Splinters erupted into the damp air of my tiny apartment as the wooden door frame blew inward under a high-velocity breaching charge.
Choking grey smoke flooded the small room, smelling of burnt plastic and chemical propellant.
Three figures silhouetted against the dim hallway light breached the threshold, moving with a synchronized, predatory grace that normal SWAT teams could never replicate.
Dark, unmarked tactical gear clung to their frames, absorbing the weak light from the streetlamps outside.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I scrambled backward onto the mattress.
Blue sparks hissed along my knuckles, a raw, stolen power that I had only recently acquired from my previous encounter.
"Hands where we can see them!" a voice barked, sharp and completely devoid of hesitation.
Standing behind the initial breach team was a younger, leaner man in a crisp dark suit that looked entirely out of place in this rotting building.
His eyes were cold, calculating, and fixed entirely on me, showing no trace of the warm, mild-mannered diplomat he would one day pretend to be.
This was Phil Coulson, decades before he would become the friendly face of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s public relations.
Right now, in 2007, he was a ruthless field specialist tasked with neutralizing an unregistered, potentially dangerous anomaly.
Heavy boots clicked against the floorboards as the first two agents advanced, their weapons raised with terrifying precision.
Crimson laser dots flickered across my chest, burning tiny hot circles into my torn shirt.
"Stand down," Coulson ordered, his voice level, carrying the weight of absolute authority.
Fear threatened to paralyze me, but the memory of my past life’s helplessness flared in my gut, turning into hot, defensive rage.
Never again would I let myself be dragged away to a cell, examined like a lab rat, or discarded when my usefulness ran dry.
Spitting a curse, I slammed both palms flat against the wet, rotting floorboards.
Blinding pulses of blue bio-electricity erupted from my hands, racing through the damp wood and the metal nails holding the floor together.
Crackling arcs of current surged upward into the boots of the two lead agents.
Sparking violently, their high-tech rifle sights flickered and died, and the tactical communication earpieces in their ears exploded with static.
Both men stiffened, their muscles seizing as the voltage racked their bodies, sending them crashing to the floor.
Coulson, however, had already anticipated the move, stepping backward into the hallway just in time to avoid the conductive dampness of the floor.
Drawing a sleek, customized pistol from his holster, he fired two non-lethal shock darts straight at my chest.
Twisting my body sideways, I felt the wind of the projectiles as they hissed past my ear, embedding themselves into the plaster wall behind me.
"Target is hostile," Coulson muttered into his collar mic, though the static from my electric pulse likely scrambled the signal.
Charging forward, I leaped over the twitching bodies of the two downed agents, aiming a low kick at Coulson’s midsection.
My foot caught him in the ribs, but it felt like hitting solid concrete.
Grimacing, Coulson barely grunted, absorbing the blow before grabbing my ankle with a grip like a steel vice.
With a brutal, practiced twist, he threw me off balance, sending me crashing hard into the narrow hallway wall.
Pain flared in my shoulder as plaster dust rained down on us.
Before I could recover, Coulson was on me, his movements a blur of highly efficient, lethal close-quarters combat.
Sharp elbows caught me across the jaw, filling my mouth with the copper taste of blood.
Another strike targeted my solar plexus, knocking the wind from my lungs in a desperate gasp.
Desperation clawed at my throat as I realized I couldn't match his lifetime of training with my raw, uncoordinated physical form.
He was going to pin me, cuff me, and drag me to some subterranean S.H.I.E.L.D. black site where I would spend the rest of my days as a test subject.
Lifting my arm defensively, I blocked his next punch, but instead of pulling away, I opened my palm.
My fingers scraped against his bare wrist, just beneath the cuff of his tactical sleeve.
Golden sparks erupted at the point of contact, blinding and intense.
Time seemed to grind to a torturous crawl as the Copy ability tore into his subconscious mind.
Golden light, sharp and geometric, flared behind my eyelids, illuminating the vast, empty space of my own soul.
Massive streams of data—tactical combat matrices, situational awareness, firearms proficiency, and years of brutal hand-to-hand combat training—flooded across the bridge.
My brain screamed under the sudden, agonizing pressure of the information dump.
But the power demanded a sacrifice; it always did.
To make room for this massive influx of military precision, something else had to be discarded.
Deep within my mind, a warm, bright memory began to unravel.
I saw myself standing on a sunlit stage, wearing a ridiculous blue polyester gown that smelled of cheap laundry detergent.
My high school principal was smiling, handing me a rolled-up diploma while my mother cheered wildly from the third row of the bleachers.
I could feel the pride in my chest, the sheer, unadulterated hope for the future that I had felt on that warm June afternoon.
Then, a cold, digital wind swept through the memory.
Warm smiles dissolved, the blue gown turned to grey ash, and the sound of my mother's voice faded into a hollow, meaningless hum.
Names, faces, and the very feeling of accomplishment vanished, replaced by the sterile grip of a combat knife and the exact trajectory calculations of a nine-millimeter round.
Sickening emptiness hollowed out my chest, leaving a dark, quiet void where my youth used to live.
When my eyes snapped open, the world looked entirely different.
I no longer saw a terrifying secret agent standing in front of me; I saw a series of tactical liabilities.
Coulson's left shoulder was slightly dropped from an old injury, his balance was shifted sixty percent to his right heel, and his guard had a two-inch opening near his collarbone.
My body moved before I could think, executing a perfect counter-grapple that I had never learned but now knew as well as breathing.
Twisting his wrist, I broke his grip on my arm, using his own momentum to drive my elbow straight into his sternum.
Impact vibrated through my bones, knocking the air from his lungs and forcing him back three paces.
Instantly, I swept his front leg, sending the formidable S.H.I.E.L.D. specialist crashing to the floor with a heavy groan.
Three more tactical agents rounded the corner of the stairwell, their weapons drawn and ready to fire.
Calculating the distance, wind speed, and their reaction times in a split second, I knew I had less than three seconds to escape.
Hails of rubber bullets and taser prongs chipped the doorframe behind me.
Spinning on my heel, I sprinted back into my ruined apartment, leaping over the debris.
Dirty glass of the window at the end of the room was my only exit.
Without hesitating, I threw my weight forward, shattering the dirty glass as I launched myself into the cold night air.
Arin leaps from the third-story window into a dumpster, but before he can run, he looks down at his hand to see a glowing, microscopic golden crack permanently etched into his palm.