Samaye learned early that his father’s work did not end when he came home.
Even at the dinner table, files followed him—not physically, but in the way his eyes would pause mid-conversation, or how his hand lingered over the screen of his device when a notification appeared.
He wasn’t a soldier.
He wasn’t an ability user.
Yet when chaos erupted somewhere in the country, his name was often the first to be called.
Samaye’s father represented what the government publicly called the human side—the bridge between ordinary people and those who had awakened after the Incident. When ability users lost control, he was sent to negotiate. When civilians protested, he was sent to calm them. When both sides demanded justice, he was expected to define what justice meant.
Some called him idealistic.
Others called him dangerous.
To Samaye, he was simply his father—the man who believed that power did not decide a person’s worth.
“You can’t rule fear with more fear,” his father once said, fastening his coat before leaving. “That only teaches people to hide.”
He had become good at what he did.
Too good.
People said he was the chain that kept humanity from tearing itself apart.
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Chains, Samaye would later learn, are always pulled from both sides.
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The next morning, Samaye’s classroom buzzed with unusual excitement.
Their class teacher stood near the board, her voice filled with pride as a large title glowed behind her:
> “HUMANITY’S GREATEST VICTORY”
A holographic projection displayed images of world leaders standing together, hands joined, flags fluttering behind them.
“Class,” she said, smiling, “today we will talk about the day humanity proved that unity is stronger than fear.”
She spoke of scientists working day and night.
Of governments setting aside differences.
Of humanity looking into extinction—and refusing to blink.
“The Halley Event,” she continued, “was not just a disaster. It was a reminder of what we can achieve when we stand together.”
The images shifted—rockets launching, celebrations erupting, children waving flags.
What she didn’t mention was the panic.
The rushed decisions.
The mistakes.
What she didn’t show were the emergency laws that never ended.
Samaye didn’t notice the gaps.
His eyes shone as he watched the screen.
Humanity survived.
That thought alone filled him with quiet joy.
When the bell rang, reality rushed back in—chairs scraping, laughter breaking out, students pouring into the corridors.
That afternoon, Samaye met Arjun and Meera at the park near their colony.
They ran until their legs ached, played until the sun dipped low, and finally collapsed onto the grass, breathing hard, staring at the sky.
For a while, none of them spoke.
Then Samaye broke the silence.
“What do you want to be in the future?” he asked suddenly.
Arjun sat up, eyes bright.
“If I awaken,” he said without hesitation, “I’ll help everyone. I’ll save lives. People like us should protect others.”
Meera smiled softly, brushing dirt from her uniform.
“I want to be a doctor,” she said. “It’s my mother’s wish. And… I think saving people quietly is just as important.”
They both turned to Samaye.
“What about you?” Arjun asked. “What will you do?”
Samaye thought of his father—of reports, negotiations, long nights, and unwavering belief.
“I guess,” he said after a moment, “I’ll be like my dad.”
Arjun blinked. “You mean… a government officer?”
Samaye nodded. “Yeah.”
For a second, they stared at him.
Then both of them burst out laughing.
“Of course you would,” Meera said, smiling.
“Someone has to keep the world together,” Arjun added.
They said their goodbyes and ran home, unaware of how fragile those dreams were.
Samaye walked back slowly, the evening breeze cool against his face.
Above him, the sky was calm.
No comets.
No fire.
No signs of the future waiting quietly beyond sight.
For now, the world still felt safe.
