My mother didn’t come.
At first, I wasn’t worried.
I had been awake for maybe twenty minutes.
Maybe an hour.
Time had become difficult again, except now for completely different reasons.
People kept touching me.
Checking my eyes.
Taking blood.
Attaching wires to my chest.
Asking questions.
“What is your name?” “Akio Kita.” “Do you know where you are?” “No.” “Do you remember what happened?” “Yes.” “What happened?” “I touched something.” “What year is it?” I answered.
The doctor didn’t say anything.
That bothered me.
“What year is it?” “We’ll discuss that when you’re more stable.” “What year is it?” “Akio—” “What year?” Someone adjusted the line in my arm.
“Please try to rest.” I stared at him.
“I’ve been resting.” He didn’t understand why that was funny.
Neither did I.
I stopped laughing halfway through because my ribs hurt.
Actually, everything hurt.
My muscles felt like they had been replaced with wet rope.
My hands shook whenever I tried lifting them.
My legs were worse.
The first time I tried moving one, I managed maybe an inch before it dropped back against the bed.
That scared me more than I wanted anyone to know.
I remembered running.
Training.
Walking home with Threya.
Chasing Benny around the house.
Holding a sword.
Now lifting my own leg felt impossible.
A nurse noticed me staring at it.
“Don’t force it.” “How long?” “How long what?” “Until I can walk.” “We don’t know yet.” There it was.
I almost smiled.
Some things hadn’t changed.
“Where’s my mom?” The nurse looked toward the door.
“Someone contacted administration.” “That’s not what I asked.” “Akio—” “Did someone call her?” She hesitated.
That was the first moment I knew something was wrong.
“Who did you call?” “I’m not sure.” “You were standing here.” “I wasn’t the one who made the call.” “Then ask.” “Your heart rate is climbing.” “Then answer faster.” Another doctor stepped in.
“Akio.” “Where’s my mom?” “We need you to stay calm.” I hated that sentence immediately.
Nobody had ever become calmer because someone told them to stay calm.
“She was here.” The room went quiet.
I looked between them.
“My mom was here.” Nobody answered.
“I heard her.” One doctor glanced toward another.
That look told me everything.
They hadn’t known.
“You heard visitors?” he asked.
“Yes.” “While you were contained?” “Yes.” “How much?” “All of it.” Someone stopped writing.
I looked at him.
“You said I was unconscious.” Nobody spoke.
“You said I couldn’t hear anything.” The nurse stepped closer.
“Akio…” “I heard you.” Every face in the room had changed.
Not concern anymore.
Interest.
That was worse.
“I heard the tests.
I heard the tours.
I heard my friends.” One of the monitors sped up.
“Three and a half years,” I said.
Silence.
“So don’t ask me what year it is.” The doctor stared.
“You knew?” “I counted at first.” My voice sounded strange.
Weak.
Rough.
Older than I remembered.
“Then people told me.” Nobody knew what to say to that.
Good.
I was tired of listening to people talk about me.
“Call my mom.” The doctor looked toward the door.
“Please.” That word hurt more.
“Just call her.” He nodded.
“I’ll find out what’s happening.” “Now.” “Yes.” He left.
I watched the door close.
The nurse adjusted my blanket.
I didn’t want a blanket.
I didn’t want monitors.
I didn’t want doctors.
I wanted Mom.
I wanted her to walk through the door and tell me I looked terrible.
I wanted her to yell at me for touching the fragment.
I wanted her to tell me I was grounded.
I wanted soup.
My room.
My bed.
The stupid dent above the kitchen doorway.
Anything that belonged to before.
I closed my eyes.
Because I could.
That still felt strange.
For three and a half years, darkness had been forced on me.
Now I could choose it.
I opened them again immediately.
I didn’t like the dark anymore.
They tried to make me sleep.
I refused.
Eventually my body ignored me.
I woke to voices outside the room.
“…entire wing.” “Already done.” “Public access?” “Suspended.” “What reason?” “Containment instability.” “And the recording systems?” “Sealed.” “Staff?” “Briefing now.” The voices weren’t doctors.
I stared at the door.
A nurse sat near the wall.
Different nurse.
“How long was I asleep?” “About three hours.” Three hours.
I looked toward the window.
There wasn’t one.
“Did my mom come?” The nurse’s expression answered before she did.
“No.” I swallowed.
“Why?” “I don’t know.” “Did anyone call her?” “I’m not authorized to discuss—” “Did anyone call my mother?” She looked uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry.” Something tightened in my chest.
Not my Core.
Me.
“Give me a phone.” “I can’t.” “Why?” “Personal communications have been temporarily restricted.” I stared at her.
“What?” The door opened.
Three people entered.
None were doctors.
Dark suits.
No visible weapons.
They didn’t need visible weapons.
Everything about them said government.
One remained beside the door.
Another spoke quietly to the nurse.
She nodded and left.
I watched her go.
“Who are you?” Nobody answered.
The person beside the door touched something near his ear.
I looked around.
My clothes were gone.
My phone was gone.
My bag was gone.
I didn’t even know if my phone still existed.
“Where are my things?” “Secured.” “By who?” No answer.
I pushed myself upright.
Bad idea.
My arms shook instantly.
One of them stepped forward.
“Please remain in bed.” “Don’t touch me.” He stopped.
Good.
I managed to sit higher against the pillows.
It took far too much effort.
“Where is my mother?” Footsteps approached outside.
The people in the room straightened.
Not much.
Enough.
The door opened.
I recognized the woman immediately.
Everyone would have.
President Evelyn Cross looked slightly different in person.
Shorter than television made her seem.
More tired too.
Dark hair cut neatly around her jaw.
Gray had started appearing near one temple, something campaign photographs apparently didn’t consider important.
No dramatic entrance.
No crowd.
No cameras.
Just a dark suit, two security officers, and the President of the country walking into the room where I was supposed to be waiting for my mother.
I stared at her.
She stared at me.
“Akio Kita.” “Where’s my mom?” One of the security officers shifted.
President Cross didn’t.
“Outside this facility.” “Then call her.” She looked toward the others.
“Give us the room.” “Madam President—” “The room.” They left.
All of them.
The door closed.
Now it was just me and the President.
I didn’t care.
“Call my mother.” Cross pulled a chair closer.
She sat.
“No.” I stared at her.
“What?” “I can’t do that yet.” I think some part of me expected an explanation immediately.
When one didn’t come, anger arrived instead.
“Give me a phone.” “I can’t do that either.” “Why?” “Because nobody outside a restricted group can know you’re awake.” For a moment, I genuinely thought I’d misunderstood her.
“What?” “The moment your containment failed, this facility triggered a federal protocol tied to the Emory Incident.
Communications from this wing were suspended before confirmation of your condition.” “My mom isn’t the press.” “I know.” “Then call her.” “I can’t.” “Stop saying that.” My voice cracked.
I hated how weak it sounded.
Cross didn’t react.
“Akio—” “She waited three and a half years.” “I know.” “No, you don’t.” Her expression changed slightly.
I kept going.
“She came here.
She talked to me.
She sat outside that thing while everyone kept telling her I couldn’t hear her.” My hands were shaking.
I didn’t care.
“She thought I was trapped in there.” Cross said nothing.
“I was.” “I understand.” “No, you don’t.” “You’re right.” That stopped me.
Cross leaned back slightly.
“I don’t.” I stared at her.
“I don’t know what three and a half years of conscious containment felt like.
I’m not going to pretend I do.” My anger had nowhere to go for half a second.
Then it found somewhere.
“So call her.” Cross looked down.
When she looked back at me, I knew I wasn’t going to like what came next.
“At 9:14 this morning, the Hero Memorial and Research Center announced that the Emory containment shell had entered an unstable phase.” I stared.
“The public section was evacuated.
This wing was sealed.
Officially, your exhibit is being relocated to a restricted preservation area.” “My exhibit.” Her jaw tightened.
“Yes.” “I’m not an exhibit.” “No.
You’re not.” “Then why are you telling people I am?” “Because right now the world believes Akio Kita is still inside that shell.” My heart beat harder.
“And for the moment, I need them to keep believing it.” “Why?” Cross was quiet.
I hated how carefully she chose her next words.
“Because you are no longer only a seventeen-year-old boy who woke up after a medical emergency.” Seventeen.
The number hit me.
I knew.
Of course I knew.
Three and a half years.
Fourteen plus three and a half.
I’d heard people say it.
I’d heard dates.
But hearing it attached to me was different.
“I’m…” My voice stopped.
Cross waited.
I looked at my hands.
They were wrong.
Longer fingers.
More pronounced knuckles.
My arms were thin from disuse, but longer too.
I’d seen my reflection when the ice broke.
I hadn’t wanted to think about it.
“Seventeen?” “Yes.” I looked at her.
“How old?” “Seventeen years and eight months.” Eight months.
I’d lost more than three years.
Nearly four.
I swallowed.
“What day is it?” She told me.
I stared at the blanket.
A date.
A normal date.
Tuesday.
I had disappeared on a Tuesday.
Of course I had.
“Akio.” I looked up.
Cross continued.
“The Emory Incident became one of the most studied Core events in modern history.” “I know.” She paused.
“You heard.” “Everything.” “Then you know your classmates were affected.” “The Flag-Bearers.” “Yes.” Hearing the name from her made it more real.
“All nine demonstrated abnormal Core development following the incident.
No one has proven the cause.” “Was it me?” “We don’t know.” “Was it the fragment?” “We don’t know.” “Was the beetle carrying it?” “We don’t know.” I laughed.
It came out ugly.
Cross didn’t stop me.
“Three and a half years,” I said.
“And nobody knows anything.” “We know more than we did.” “Not enough to tell me why I lost three and a half years.” “No.” I looked away.
My eyes burned.
I wasn’t going to cry in front of the President.
That was a stupid thought.
I almost laughed again.
As if that mattered.
“Why does any of this mean I can’t call Mom?” “Because your awakening changes the Emory case overnight.” “Good.” “It reopens every question surrounding the Flag-Bearers.” “Not my problem.” “It becomes your problem when governments, research organizations, hero agencies, private corporations, religious groups, and every media outlet in the world begin asking why you woke up.” “Then tell them you don’t know.” “They won’t stop asking.” “I don’t care.” “They’ll ask whether your Core caused the others to change.” “I don’t know.” “They’ll ask whether the relic can be reproduced.” “I don’t know.” “Whether your blood has changed.
Whether your body aged normally.
Whether the shell can preserve someone indefinitely.
Whether you can create another one.” “I DON’T KNOW!” My voice tore through my throat.
Pain followed.
A monitor screamed.
Cross stood.
I tried to breathe.
The door opened immediately.
A doctor rushed in.
“Out,” I said.
“Akio—” “OUT!” Cross raised a hand.
The doctor stopped.
She looked at the monitor.
Then at me.
“Slow breaths.” “Don’t tell me how to breathe.” “Fair.” I gripped the blanket.
My arms trembled.
The doctor stayed near the doorway.
Cross sat again.
Quietly.
I hated that she wasn’t fighting me.
It would have been easier.
“There’s more,” she said.
“Of course there is.” “Your father.” I froze.
The room became very still.
“What about him?” “Lutoro Kita remains one of the most famous heroes in modern history.” “He’s dead.” Cross didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.” I watched her.
Nothing.
No strange pause.
No clue.
Just the same answer the entire world knew.
“Being his son already made you notable before Emory,” she continued.
“Afterward, your story became inseparable from his.” “I didn’t ask for that.” “I know.” “You keep saying you know.” “Because some things I do.” I looked away.
“Your name carries weight now, Akio.” “It’s my name.” “I know.” “Stop saying that.” She did.
Silence stretched between us.
Finally I asked, “Do they still come?” Cross understood immediately.
“Your friends?” “Yeah.” “Some more often than others.” I knew that.
“Threya?” “Yes.” “Benny?” “Yes.” “All of them?” “At different times.” I stared at my hands.
“Do they know?” “No.” My head snapped up.
Cross didn’t look away.
“None of them know the shell opened.” “What about my mom?” “No.” I threw the blanket off.
My legs looked thin.
Wrong.
I swung them toward the side of the bed.
The room tilted.
Cross stood.
“What are you doing?” “Leaving.” “You can’t walk.” “Watch me.” My feet touched the floor.
For one second, I was standing.
Then my knees folded.
Cross caught me before I hit.
I hated that.
I hated her hands on me.
I hated my legs.
I hated the floor.
I hated the ice.
“Let go.” She did.
Immediately.
I sat on the floor.
The President crouched a few feet away.
Neither of us spoke.
I tried to stand again.
My arms barely pushed me up.
Nothing.
My body had forgotten how.
I hit the floor with my fist.
It hurt.
I did it again.
“Akio.” Again.
“Akio.” “Shut up.” Again.
My knuckles split.
Cross grabbed my wrist.
I tried pulling away.
Couldn’t.
That hurt worse than anything.
She wasn’t strong.
I was weak.
“Let me go.” “Stop hurting yourself.” “LET ME GO!” She released me.
I sat there breathing.
Crying now.
I didn’t care anymore.
“I want my mom.” Cross’s expression finally broke.
Not much.
But enough.
“I know.” I didn’t tell her to stop saying it.
“I want to go home.” “I know.” “I don’t care about Emory.” “I know.” “I don’t care about the Flag-Bearers.” That one was a lie.
We both knew it.
“I don’t care about my dad.” Another lie.
“I just want to go home.” Cross sat on the floor.
The President of the country sat on a hospital floor with me.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “That’s what I’m trying to make possible.” I laughed through tears.
“You’re doing a terrible job.” “At the moment, yes.” I looked at her.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
“How long?” “I don’t know.” “Don’t.” She stopped.
“No more ‘I don’t know.’ Give me something.” Cross thought.
“Seventy-two hours.” “What?” “Give me seventy-two hours.” “For what?” “To determine exactly what happened when the shell released you.
To secure your medical condition.
To understand what information has already left this building.
And to determine whether I can safely let Akio Kita walk out the front door.” There was something about the way she said my name.
Not me.
The name.
“Safely?” “Yes.” “For who?” “Everyone.” I stared at her.
“That’s not an answer.” “No.
It’s the answer I can give you today.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
“After seventy-two hours, I see my mom.” Cross hesitated.
Too long.
“President Cross.” “I’m not going to promise you something I may not be able to give.” My stomach dropped.
“Why wouldn’t you be able to?” “Because I don’t know what we’re going to find.” “What does that mean?” “It means I need seventy-two hours.” I hated her.
At that moment, I genuinely hated her.
“Fine.” Cross stood.
She offered me a hand.
I looked at it.
Didn’t take it.
I used the bed instead.
It took both arms and most of what little strength I had, but I got myself back onto the mattress.
Cross didn’t help.
I appreciated that more than I wanted to.
She moved toward the door.
“President Cross.” She stopped.
“My friends.” “What about them?” “Don’t tell them.” That surprised her.
It surprised me too.
I looked down.
“If Mom doesn’t know…” My throat tightened.
“…don’t tell them before her.” Cross nodded.
“I won’t.” “And don’t let them think I died.” “I won’t.” “Don’t change anything.” Another pause.
“Officially, your condition remains unchanged.” I hated it.
But it was better than dead.
“For seventy-two hours.” Cross looked at me.
“For seventy-two hours.” She opened the door.
Then I remembered.
“Wait.” She turned.
“My stuff.” “What specifically?” “My phone.” “We’ll locate it.” “And…” I stopped.
Three and a half years.
Would it even exist?
Had Mom kept it?
Had the facility?
Had someone thrown everything away?
“There was a picture.” Cross waited.
“On my phone.” “What picture?” I saw the river.
Frank in the grass.
Paul making that stupid face.
Montiro holding the dragon.
Kenya beside Toma.
Emi annoyed.
Beth looking straight at the camera.
Benny grinning.
Threya leaning against me.
Me looking at her instead of the camera.
“The ten of us.” Cross’s expression softened.
“I’ll find it.” “Don’t lose it.” “I won’t.” She left.
They moved me before nightfall.
Not far.
A secure medical room deeper inside the facility.
No public access.
No tours.
No windows.
I wondered if anyone understood how cruel that last part was.
Physical therapy started the next morning.
Apparently seventy-two hours didn’t include lying around.
A therapist named Daniel put a support frame around me and told me to stand.
I failed.
Again.
Failed.
Again.
My legs shook violently.
Sweat ran down my face.
“That’s enough.” “No.” “Akio.” “Again.” “You’ve been in suspended containment for three and a half years.” “I know.” “Your nervous system is adapting.” “Again.” He stared at me.
Then reset the frame.
I stood.
Three seconds.
Four.
My knee buckled.
The harness caught me.
Again.
Five seconds.
Again.
Seven.
Again.
Nine.
By the end, I couldn’t lift my arms.
Daniel wheeled me back to bed.
I hated the chair.
I hated needing it.
But underneath all of that hatred was something else.
For years, I hadn’t been able to fail at moving.
Failure required movement.
That made every collapse feel strangely precious.
My body was mine again.
Weak.
Broken.
Older.
Mine.
President Cross returned that evening.
She carried something.
Not my phone.
A photograph.
Printed.
I recognized it before she reached the bed.
My chest tightened.
She handed it to me.
My fingers shook around the edges.
Saturday.
All ten of us.
Exactly as I remembered.
For a moment, three and a half years disappeared.
I was fourteen.
The river was behind us.
Benny had yelled at a stranger until they agreed to take the picture.
Frank had complained about lying in the grass.
Paul had ruined the first three attempts.
Threya had leaned against me right before the camera went off.
I hadn’t looked at the camera.
I had looked at her.
“You found it.” “Your mother had your personal effects archived with the facility.” Of course she did.
I ran my thumb along the edge.
“Does she know you took this?” “No.” That hurt.
I put the photograph against my chest.
Cross remained standing.
“Twenty-four hours,” I said.
“Yes.” “Anything?” “Your medical results are impossible.” “Helpful.” “Your body aged.” “I noticed.” “But not normally.” I looked up.
“What does that mean?” “Physically, you’re consistent with your current age in skeletal development and several neurological markers.
But the shell appears to have prevented normal metabolic deterioration.” “English.” “You grew older without living through the physical process in a way we understand.” I stared at her.
“That’s still not English.” “Neither is the science.” Fair.
“What about my Core?” Cross hesitated.
“Active.” My hand tightened around the photo.
“I awakened?” “We believe so.” “What power?” “We don’t know yet.” There it was.
I glared.
She actually smiled this time.
Very slightly.
“That one was unavoidable.” I looked back at the picture.
Nine people.
Nine powers.
And me.
Finally.
Three and a half years late.
“Do they know?” “No.” “Good.” Cross watched me.
“You don’t want them told?” “I want to tell them.” My eyes stopped on Benny.
Then Threya.
“I want to see their faces.” Cross didn’t answer.
I looked up.
“That’s happening.” She was quiet.
“Right?” “Akio…” “No.” The room changed.
She pulled the chair closer.
Sat.
“We found something.” I felt cold.
Actual cold this time.
“What?” “Your name.” I frowned.
“What about it?” “The problem is larger than I expected.” “That doesn’t mean anything.” “Akio Kita is legally alive, publicly preserved, historically documented, medically classified, and attached to multiple sealed investigations.” “So fix the paperwork.” “It’s not paperwork.” “Then what is it?” Cross folded her hands.
“If Akio Kita walks out of this facility tomorrow, you don’t go home.” I stared at her.
“You go into protective custody.” “What?” “Immediately.” “No.” “Your mother likely does too.” “No.” “Your known associates are questioned.
The Flag-Bearers become part of the investigation again.
Every organization that has spent three years studying Emory turns toward you.” “No.” “Your father’s enemies—” “My dad is dead.” “His name still has enemies.” I didn’t answer.
Cross continued.
“You become the most famous seventeen-year-old in the country before you make it to the parking lot.” “I don’t care.” “You will.” “Then let me.” “I am trying to prevent that.” “By keeping me locked up again?” Her face tightened.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying not to do.” “Feels familiar.” That hurt her.
Good.
I wanted it to.
Then I felt guilty.
I hated that too.
Cross reached into the folder she’d brought.
Pulled out a blank document.
Set it on the table.
“I have people looking for alternatives.” “What alternatives?” “Ways for you to leave this facility without immediately becoming the Emory Containment Case.” I stared at the paper.
Something about it made me uneasy.
“How?” Cross didn’t answer directly.
Not yet.
Instead she looked at the photograph in my hands.
“Get stronger first.” “What?” “Walk.” I frowned.
“Recover.
Learn what happened to your Core.
Learn what the world looks like now.” “And then?” “Then we decide how you return to it.” “We?” “You and I.” “No.” Cross accepted that.
“Fine.” She stood.
“You decide.” Better.
Then she added: “But you’ll need to understand what you’re deciding.” She left the blank document behind.
I didn’t touch it.
For the rest of the night, I looked at the photograph.
At Benny.
At Threya.
At myself.
Akio Kita.
Fourteen years old.
Happy.
Alive.
Unaware that somewhere between that photograph and this hospital bed, my own name had become something dangerous.
I still thought the problem was getting my life back.
I didn’t understand yet that the people outside this room had already begun discussing whether that life could exist at all.