[His head slams.]

  [Black.]

  After a handful of seconds…

  Jason’s eyes open slowly.

  Light smoke. Hanging in the air.

  A high-pitched ringing in his ears.

  His heart pounds in his throat like it’s trying to break out.

  The room is wrecked.

  Not “messy.”

  Wrecked.

  Like after a grenade.

  Splintered wood. Melted plastic. Shards everywhere. Burn marks clawed into the walls.

  Jason’s hand trembles.

  A thin vapor lifts from it.

  His sleeve is torn open.

  He grips his arm like it might come off.

  The pain is brutal. It starts in the hand, climbs the arm, reaches the shoulder.

  A violent, spreading cramp—but deeper than that.

  Something new.

  Wrong.

  “Shit… shit… shit…” he whispers.

  His voice cracks on its own.

  “…what the fuck???"

  Mouth open. Cold sweat.

  Real fear.

  Because this time there’s no one to hit.

  And no way to blame bad luck.

  ---

  Sirens in the distance. Then closer.

  Door forced open. Voices. Fast footsteps. Flashlights cutting through the thin smoke.

  They don’t enter “for a fire.”

  They enter because someone heard a blast. Glass shattering. A scream.

  Because a building that goes BOOM isn’t normal.

  Because it could be gas.

  It could be a bomb.

  It could be anything that kills you even if you’re on the next floor.

  Paramedics and firefighters inside.

  They move through the damage with that calm that isn’t calm—

  it’s procedure.

  “Shut off the gas.”

  “Kill the main power.”

  “Check load-bearing walls. Now.”

  Lights sweep over blackened walls. Gloved hands sift through debris.

  No active flames.

  No gas smell.

  Just burnt air. And that dry electrical scent.

  The squad leader stops at the bedroom doorway.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Looks at the glass. The radial spray of debris.

  He crouches slightly, studies a spot, then shakes his head.

  “I don’t see a point of ignition.”

  He turns to the parents.

  “When you came back… what was it like?”

  The mother swallows.

  “We were out… twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. We opened the door and… there was glass everywhere. Smoke.”

  The father nods, stiff.

  “He was here. Alone. Standing. In shock.”

  The squad leader takes that in.

  Then his eyes land on Jason.

  Standing still.

  Blank stare.

  “And you… do you remember anything?”

  Jason doesn’t answer.

  Not because he refuses.

  Because he doesn’t know where to start.

  The firefighter exhales.

  “Okay. For now we secure the site and file the report.”

  A short gesture toward the exit.

  “Then get him checked at the hospital. Immediately. Even if he seems fine.”

  Jason’s parents stand at the doorway.

  Frozen.

  In disbelief.

  They look at the room.

  Then at him.

  Like they’re watching their son become something they never imagined.

  And Jason…

  doesn’t even know what to look at.

  The hand.

  The arm.

  The destruction.

  Himself.

  —

  The destroyed living room lingers behind them like a mark that won’t fade: blackened walls, burnt air, objects shifted as if someone shook the house with hatred.

  Jason sits on the couch.

  Shoulders curved. Hands on his knees.

  Staring into nothing.

  In front of him, his parents stand.

  Pale. Shocked.

  His mother tries to speak.

  “Jason… we need to go to the hospital.”

  His father nods once.

  “Just to be safe.”

  Jason nods slowly.

  He doesn’t speak.

  And that silence weighs more than any explanation.

  ---

  Thin rain over the building lights. Dirty reflections on wet asphalt.

  Inside: disinfectant and fatigue. Fast steps. Low voices.

  Jason walks in with a hoodie hanging open.

  His body moves forward.

  His mind is still in the room that exploded.

  Jason lies on a hospital bed.

  “Breathe normally.”

  Electrodes on his chest. Cold gel.

  The monitor shows a steady rhythm.

  Too steady.

  A doctor checks his arm.

  “Just a few bruises and superficial cuts.”

  Jason stares at the ceiling.

  Eyes open.

  Empty.

  ---

  Jason stands, shirtless.

  Cold light cuts across him: full muscles, tight skin, no real injuries.

  A doctor watches him longer than necessary.

  Two nurses slow down for a second.

  Whispers.

  “How old is he…?”

  Jason pulls his shirt back on.

  He doesn’t even notice.

  ---

  Jason sits in front of an older physician.

  Open file. Pen ready. Test results on screen.

  “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Jason speaks. Calm. Controlled.

  “I hit the wardrobe. Then… everything exploded.”

  The doctor writes.

  Detail: in the file, an entry from years ago.

  Genetic code: Crustacean (shrimp).

  The doctor pauses.

  Reads it again. Looks at Jason. Back to the file.

  “Jason…”

  His tone shifts. Heavier.

  “I strongly recommend something.”

  Silence.

  “A specialized genetic analysis center.”

  One second.

  “We need to make sure the initial classification… wasn’t incomplete.”

  He lowers his gaze.

  Then says it anyway.

  “Or outright wrong.”

  Jason listens.

  Doesn’t ask questions.

  He sits there like a part of him always knew.

  ---

  Kitchen. Muted tones.

  His mother twists her fingers together.

  “It’s expensive…”

  His father stares at the table like the answer is written there.

  “But we need to know.”

  Jason looks at them.

  Nods.

  No relief.

  Just a decision.

  Pistol Boy.