Jack sat in the cold, sterile room of the police station.

  His hands rested on the freezing table, his posture relaxed—at least, that was what he hoped he looked like.

  Internally, he was reciting a mental checklist, a survival guide for the superpowered civilian in police custody.

  It was a litany of rules he'd developed over years of being the only odd one out, the powerless man in a world of wonders.

  "Rule number one," he murmured to himself, trying to remember his so-called regulations while his gaze fixed on a hairline crack that snaked across the stark white wall.

  A minor imperfection in the sterile room.

  "Always carry your SS ID." He subtly patted his pocket, feeling the reassuring presence of the card. "Check. ID present."

  He continued his internal list. "Without it, they might suspect me of being a member of the Abyss. Especially since I'm over sixteen. And… well, because I don't have a chip."

  Jack thought of the Superpowered System ID, the SS ID.

  It was the government's way of categorizing every superpowered individual in the country.

  A necessary evil, they claimed.

  Seven years after the Great War, every sixteen-year-old who awakened their superpowers underwent the Awakening Test.

  Their abilities were documented, classified, and they were issued the SS ID. The government declared it mandatory, a tool to control the lingering riots and chaos that still followed the war.

  Restoring order to the world.

  More like an attempt to rebuild their political standing that got disrupted by the supernatural events that suddenly plunged the world into chaos, as powers erupted and the very fabric of reality seemed to shift and reports of people turning into animals or acting as one were on the rise.

  They used the SS ID to identify the troublemakers, those with uncontrolled abilities or radical ideologies, and monitor them closely.

  The ID system made it easy to filter superpowered civilians with seemingly useless abilities from those with high-risk powers with mass destruction capabilities.

  Those with potent abilities were often monitored or offered a choice: join the government or affiliate with the Superpowered Alliance, the SPA or face increased scrutiny.

  And, more importantly, the SS ID was used as a weapon against the Abyss. If you were an awakened adult without an ID, you were automatically suspected of being connected to the rogue group.

  Oh, you don't have an SS ID and no chip? Jack thought, a shiver running down his spine.

  Bam. You'll find yourself suddenly handcuffed with magic-imbued restraints, courtesy of some superpowered officer. No questions asked. No explanations given.

  He swallowed, imagining the scene.

  It's not a trial. It's a formality. And I'm pretty sure I'm about to fail that formality.

  "Rule number two," he continued, his eyes darting around the room. "Follow the instructions of the police officers. Stay where they take you until given further notice..."

  Well, this one is for everyone's protection because this place is a superpowered pressure cooker. You never know when some volatile ability is going to go off while being questioned.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  The police station was a massive, functional complex, clearly designed to hold dangerous superpowered individuals.

  Superpowered fights happen often here, and the damage can be extreme. If you are in the way of a superpowered criminal while the police are trying to catch them, you will be considered a threat.

  Which, honestly, sounds like a Tuesday. Best to avoid that.

  He paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

  "Rule number three... oh, they scratched that. Something about 'no weapons.' Apparently, they realized that against a guy who can turn those weapons in a living lava, a pocketknife or a gun isn't exactly a game-changer."

  Right. Erase, erase.

  Rule three, revised: Know your rights, stick to facts, be patient, and always ask for a copy of your statements.

  Because, you know, they might accidentally write down that you confessed to stealing a herd of invisible sheeps. Which, for the record, I did not do...

  "And finally," he concluded, his gaze settling on the flickering fluorescent lights, "Rule number four: All conversations are monitored, even internal ones. They have people who can read minds, or some tech."

  I don't know, but it is real—of course it is! We are in the Superpowered era!

  So I should probably stop talking to myself, even internally. But, hey, if they're listening, maybe they'll get some interior design tips from my apartment. It's... rustic.

  He took a deep breath, trying to project an aura of nonchalance. "Okay, Jack," he muttered under his breath.

  "You've got this. Just play it cool. Act like you're here for a casual chat about the weather. Or the existential dread of being the only powerless adult in a world of superheroes. You know, light conversation."

  Detective Harris, across the table, raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp. "Is something amusing you, Mister Dylan?"

  Jack's internal monologue screeched to a halt. "No, sir. Just... admiring the ambiance." He forced a smile to make himself look harmless, but it probably looked more like a grimace. "Very... interrogation chic."

  The air in the interrogation room was a nauseating cocktail of stale coffee and industrial-strength disinfectant, the kind that made your eyes water and your stomach churn.

  The hum of the flickering fluorescent lights pressed against Jack's skull, each buzz a tiny hammer blow to his already throbbing head.

  Across from him, Detective Harris flipped through a thin file, his weathered fingers tracing over the documents within.

  He watched him, trying to decipher the man's expression. Was it suspicion? Boredom? Mild indigestion? He couldn't tell.

  Harris's sharp eyes flicked up, locking onto his with quiet scrutiny. "So, tell me what happened at the store," the detective said, his voice firm but controlled.

  What's his superpower? He wondered. I need to avoid any suspicions.

  But then again, I didn't do anything wrong. I'm just trying to do my job.

  Why am I even nervous? Shouldn't they be grateful that I saved Mister White? Oh of course they don't know that....of what i did...

  Then he remembered he let the criminal go. Dammit.

  He tried hard not to think of anything, hence the crazy way he talked to himself. He gulped. I can only hope he doesn't have mind-reading powers, or I'm doomed.

  Then he tried to focus again on the rules.

  Rule number three: Stick to the facts...

  But the facts are... that I let him go.

  He was a criminal, yes, but a desperate father too.

  And I... I let him walk away. What if Harris finds out?

  I saved Mister White. That should be enough, right?

  My hands are shaking. But the guilt is eating at me.

  What if that guy does something else? What if someone gets hurt because of me?

  But his daughter... she needed help.

  And Mister White was okay. I told myself it balanced out.

  But did it? Did it really?

  Jack's mental checklist kicked in.

  Rule number three: Stick to facts. "Like I already told the officers before—I was on my shift, the… ugly individual (sticking to facts)… barged in, threatened me, and then when Mister White came in... he... punched him with his glowing fist. Then he ran. That's it."

  Harris nodded slightly, his gaze unreadable. "Right. And yet, the old man—who should have been dead—walked out of that hospital without so much as a scar. Funny, huh?"

  Jack's eyes widened slightly. "Oh? He's already discharged?"

  That's fast… Or maybe he just really wanted to get out of the hospital food? Maybe hospital milk is the worst?

  Harris leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "What is your relationship with Mister White?"

  Jack hesitated, unsure how to respond. Rule number three, again: Stick to facts, but don't volunteer information.

  "Like customer and seller?" It didn't sound right, even to his own ears.

  Harris raised an eyebrow. "Customer and seller? In what context?"

  "No, I mean... not in that way. Just... just legal ones! I'm a cashier, and he's a customer!" Jack groaned internally.

  Why does this sound so suspicious? I sound like a drug dealer trying to explain my 'business relationship' with a client.

  Harris's eyes glazed over for a split second, then snapped back into focus. "You sure it was that simple?"