Let's reach 250 Power Stones for an extra chapter
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I stood in Olivia's spare bedroom, the quiet hum of the city outside a stark contrast to the silence inside my head. Ethan's words echoed, a low thrum beneath the grief. Don't waste your second chance. Make a difference. My reflection stared back, pale and a little lost. The bed rail at the hospital, twisted like a pretzel, flashed in my mind. That wasn't normal. That wasn't just anymore.
The ache for my family was still there, a hollow space in my chest. But sothing else was sparking, too. A desperate, burning need to do sothing. Anything. I looked at my hands, flexing my fingers. They looked ordinary, but I knew better now. I was strong. Terrifyingly strong. I could bend steel. What did you even do with sothing like that?
Don't hide. Ethan hadn't said those exact words, but I heard them anyway. I had spent so much of my life blending in, wishing I was invisible. Now, I couldn't be. Not really. The world had shattered my old life, but it had also given ... this. This strange, impossible strength. It felt like a responsibility, heavy but also, sohow, freeing. I wasn't just a survivor. I was a weapon, or maybe, a shield. I just needed to figure out for whom.
I pulled open the closet door, the hinges groaning softly. A cloud of dust rose, catching the faint light filtering in from the window. Inside, it was a graveyard of old clothes, each piece a ghost of the girl I used to be. A worn-out band t-shirt, a pair of jeans with a faded patch, a hoodie that swallowed whole. I pulled the dark fabric over my head, feeling the familiar comfort, but it just felt… wrong. Too normal. Too invisible. I needed sothing more.
No, not invisible. I thought, yanking the hoodie off. I needed to be seen, but not as Jessica. Not the Jessica who was always a little too quiet, a little too out of place. This new , this strong , needed a new skin. I rembered the comic books, the ones I used to read in my old room, hidden from the world. Heroes in their bright, ridiculous costus, standing tall. I used to think it was silly, all that spandex and capes. Now, I got it. It wasn't about practicality; it was about the symbol. It was about standing for sothing, even when you felt like falling apart.
I tossed a pile of clothes onto the floor, the whispering fabric barely audible against the carpet. A leather jacket felt too stiff, a bright yellow sweater too cheerful. Nothing was clicking. My fingers brushed against a dark blue dress, a relic from so long-forgotten school dance. It was all wrong, but a flicker of an idea sparked. Maybe a little less "costu" and a little more "attitude." I needed sothing that scread "don't ss with ," but also, sohow, "I'm here to help." The mirror reflected a girl in flux, caught between who she was and who she was desperate to beco.
My hand brushed against sothing silky at the back of the closet, a forgotten garnt bag. A strange sense of purpose filled as I pulled it out. Inside, a shimring, pearl-white spandex bodysuit, a relic from a brief, awkward stint in a local theater production, glead in the dim light. It was sleeveless and form-fitting, with a faint tallic sheen that almost glowed. It was perfect. This was it.
I slipped it on, the fabric cool against my skin. It felt like a second skin, snug and surprisingly comfortable. I found a vibrant cerulean blue sash in an old dance bag, tying it diagonally around my waist. It fastened with a pink, diamond-shaped buckle, a little splash of color. Then, matching blue opera-length gloves, extending past my elbows. The outfit was bright, almost glowing. It looked like sothing straight out of a comic book. It looked like a hero.
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, a strange girl looking back. The shimring bodysuit, the bright blue sash—it's all so… loud. Not , the old . The silver fabric stretches with my breath, and I feel a shiver, a mix of nerves and sothing else, sothing like excitent. My dark brown hair and sharp blue-gray eyes, though, they're still mine. Too recognizable. Too Jessica.
I dig through an old cardboard box, the kind Olivia probably keeps all her weird coffee ingredients in. My fingers close around a wig, synthetic hair, bright pink. I rember it from that awful play in junior high. The one where I had two lines and still managed to trip over my own feet. I pull it on, adjusting the bangs, covering my real hair completely.
The transformation is imdiate. The girl staring back isn't Jessica Campbell, the quiet student who sat in the back of class. She's soone else entirely. Soone bold. Soone who could probably punch through a wall and not even flinch. I take a deep breath, the pink hair framing a face that looks ready for anything. This new identity, this Jewel, feels less like a costu and more like a skin I'm finally growing into.
The cool night air kissed my face, a welco shock after the stagnant warmth of Olivia's spare room. I found the fire escape with ease, my fingers gripping the cold tal. Down below, the streetlights painted a distant, distorted picture. Cars looked like toys, their headlights just pinpricks of light. I didn't hesitate. This was it.
I launched myself off the fire escape, a strange, exhilarating weightlessness washing over . The ground rushed up to et with a terrifying speed. My body instinctively curled, absorbing the impact. I landed in a crouch on the pavent with a soft thud. No jarring pain, no twisted ankles. Just a jolt of pure adrenaline.
I pushed off again, a sudden burst of power from my legs. This ti, I soared higher, the city lights stretching out beneath like a scattered handful of diamonds. The wind whipped the pink wig around my face, threatening to pull it clean off. A wild, breathless laugh escaped my lips. It was pure, unadulterated joy. This was what it felt like to be free. I was flying. It was clumsy, more like a series of really long, really high jumps, but it was flying to . The sheer exhilaration of it was intoxicating. I could do this. I could actually do this.
From a high vantage point, I saw it: a delivery truck swerving wildly, its brakes failing as it careened toward a school bus. The bus sat stopped at a crosswalk, filled with kids. A wave of panic swept through the street. Instinct took over, pushing aside every lingering doubt. I didn't think; I simply acted.
I dove from the rooftop, a silver streak against the city backdrop, the pink of my hair a vibrant blur. The ground rushed up. I landed between the truck and the bus, planting my feet firmly on the asphalt. My gloved hands slamd into the truck's grille. tal groaned, a terrible screeching sound as the truck's montum fought against my impossible strength. It shuddered, grinding to a halt just inches from the bus.
A child, wide-eyed and small, pressed his face against the bus window. His lips moved, forming silent words. "Who are you?" he mouthed. I looked at my reflection in the truck's polished chro—a flash of silver, blue, and shocking pink. A faint smile touched my lips.
The truck driver scrambled out of his cab, all shaking hands and wide eyes, staring at the impossible dent in his grille. The crowd on the sidewalk started to thicken, a low murmur rising, and then I heard it—the distant wail of sirens, growing closer by the second. My heart hamred against my ribs, a frantic little bird trapped in a cage. I couldn't stay. Not like this.
The kid on the bus, though, he pressed his face against the glass again, his small voice muffled but clear. "Are you a superhero?"
The question hung in the air, a tiny, fragile thing, but it felt louder than the sirens. I t his gaze through the window, my pink hair probably looking ridiculous. I didn't know what to say. Superhero? I was just Jessica. But a new Jessica, one who just stopped a truck with her bare hands. One who couldn't just leave them with nothing.
"I'm Jewel," I said, the na feeling foreign on my tongue, but strong. It sounded… right. "Just Jewel."
Then, I turned and launched myself into the sky, away from the flashing lights and the growing crowd, the word echoing behind .
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