THE SYSTEM GAVE ME EVERY VILLAIN'S POWER

Chapter 3

"Stay back!" Kian yelled, his voice cracking as the red-eyed mechanical scavengers edged closer. "I’m warning you! I’ve got nothing left to lose!"

The larger of the two scrap-hounds let out a series of rhythmic clicks, its metal joints groaning as it lowered its head. It didn’t care about his warnings. It smelled the copper tang of fresh blood on his gown and the residual mana clinging to his skin.

"Fine. You want a piece of this?" Kian shoved his hand forward, his fingers trembling. "Eat this! Embers... whatever! Burn!"

A pathetic sputter of orange sparks jumped from his knuckles. It was barely enough to light a candle, but the sudden heat made the lead scavenger recoil. Its optical sensors whirred as it recalibrated.

"That’s right!" Kian gasped, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "I’ll cook you both! Come on! Who’s first?"

[SYSTEM ALERT: EMOTIONAL INSTABILITY DETECTED]

[SKILL 'EMBERS OF THE MADMAN' IS REACTING TO AGGRESSION]

"I know it's reacting!" Kian screamed at the blue screen floating in his peripheral vision. "Just help me! Do something useful!"

A sudden, sharp pain lanced through the back of his skull. His vision swam, turning the alley into a kaleidoscope of shifting oranges and blacks. He wasn't in the city anymore. He could hear the crackle of burning cedar. He could hear a woman’s frantic voice calling a name that wasn't his.

"Get out... get out of my head!" Kian shrieked, clutching his temples with his free hand.

The scrap-hounds flinched at the sheer volume of his voice. To them, he wasn't an easy meal anymore; he was an erratic, unstable anomaly. With one final, mechanical hiss, they turned and skittered back into the deeper shadows of the transit zone.

"Yeah... run..." Kian whispered.

His legs gave out. He collapsed over the dissolving remnants of the Lesser Offender, his hands slapping into the cold, wet sludge of the alleyway. The roar of the water hydrant was the only thing left.

"I can't... I need to move," he told himself, his voice sounding small and distant. "If I stay here, something else will come. Something bigger."

[QUEST UPDATE: SEEK SHELTER]

[OBJECTIVE: LOCATE A NON-HERO RESIDENCY]

[REWARD: STABILIZATION PERIOD]

"A hotel?" Kian pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the brick wall. "I have sixty points. That’s enough for a bed, right? It has to be."

He stumbled toward the neon lights of the main street, keeping his head down. He looked like a nightmare—a man in a shredded hospital gown covered in soot and blood. But in this new version of the city, nobody even blinked. They just steered clear, assuming he was a low-level casualty or a crazy vagrant.

Ten minutes of shuffling brought him to a flickering sign that read: THE GILDED GEAR - LOW-POINT LODGING.

Kian pushed the glass door open. A small bell chimed overhead. The man behind the counter didn't look up from his digital newspaper.

"Check-in?" the clerk asked, his voice a gravelly drone.

"I need a room," Kian said, his teeth chattering. "Somewhere with a lock."

The clerk finally looked up, his eyes scanning Kian’s tattered appearance. "Rough night in the Dungeons? Or did a Hero use you for target practice?"

"Just... just give me a room," Kian muttered. "How much?"

"Twelve points a night for the standard. Twenty if you want a shower that actually has warm mana-filtered water," the clerk said, tapping his screen. "And no refunds if the System triggers a raid check. You look like you're carrying a lot of 'flavor' on you, kid."

"Flavor?"

"Psych-residue. The way your eyes are twitching? It screams 'Soul Absorption' side effects," the clerk grinned, showing a row of yellowed teeth. "Twenty points. Upfront. Transfer via touch or let the System handle the trade."

"Do it," Kian sighed. "Just take them."

[TRANSACTION COMPLETE: -20 POINTS]

[REMAINING BALANCE: 40 POINTS]

"Room 402. Elevators are broken, use the stairs," the clerk tossed a chipped plastic card onto the counter. "And don't set the curtains on fire. The insurance doesn't cover non-classed incidents."

Kian froze. "Why did you say that?"

"Say what?"

"About the curtains?"

The clerk shrugged. "You smell like gasoline and matches, kid. It ain't rocket science. Just keep it in your pants until you’re checked out."

Kian grabbed the card and practically ran for the stairs. Every step felt like he was lifting a ton of lead. By the time he reached the fourth floor, his vision was pulsing with heat. He fumbled with the card, nearly dropping it twice before the lock finally hissed open.

The room was a shoebox. A single bed with a thin gray blanket, a cracked sink, and a small wooden desk. Kian slammed the door shut and engaged the manual bolt. He sank to the floor, his back against the wood.

"It's not real," he gasped, his fingers digging into his scalp. "The fire... the orphanage... it wasn't me. My name is Kian. I was in a car crash. I'm a student. I'm a brother."

"Was it pretty, Kian?" a voice whispered—a voice that seemed to come from inside his own ears.

"Shut up!" Kian screamed into the empty room.

"The way the wood twisted in the heat... you remember, don't you?"

"I said shut up! You’re dead! You’re just a bunch of numbers in a UI!"

Kian lunged for the small desk. He saw a notepad and a cheap ballpoint pen sitting next to a 'Rules of the House' pamphlet. His hands were shaking so hard the pen nearly flew across the room.

"Grounding," he muttered, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "I need to ground myself. If I write it down, it's real."

He clicked the pen. His knuckles were still stained with the Lesser Offender’s blood. He pressed the tip to the paper.

Kian Adiyatma.

"That’s me," he whispered. "Kian Adiyatma."

Kian Adiyatma.

Kian Adiyatma.

He wrote it three times, four times, five times. He filled half the page with his name. Each stroke of the pen felt like a battle against a tide of foreign memories trying to wash his identity away.

"You're wasting ink," the inner voice chuckled. "You think a name protects you? You think a label on a jar changes what's inside?"

"It does! It has to!" Kian sobbed, writing the name for the sixth time.

But as he looked down at the seventh entry, his hand faltered. The letters weren't neat anymore. They weren't his usual slanted, cursive-lite script. They were becoming jagged. Sharp. Each 'A' looked like a tiny, flickering flame.

"Stop it," Kian hissed at his own hand. "Write it properly!"

He gripped the pen so hard the plastic began to crack. He forced himself to write his home address.

142 Emerald Street...

"The one with the yellow door?" the voice asked playfully. "The one that would go up so fast if you just dropped a lit wick in the mail slot? Think of the woosh, kid. The glorious sound of the updraft."

"No!" Kian slammed his fist onto the desk. "I don't want to burn anything! I want to sleep! I want my sister!"

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: PSYCHOLOGICAL INTEGRATION AT 45%]

[WARNING: HIGH FEVER IMMINENT AS DATA OVERWRITES NEURAL PATHWAYS]

"A fever?" Kian laughed, a wet, hysterical sound. "Oh, thank God. Just a fever. I can handle a fever."

He stood up, his legs buckling as he moved toward the sink. He splashed cold water on his face, but it didn't help. The water felt like gasoline. He looked in the mirror and didn't see his own reflection; he saw a flash of violet eyes and soot-streaked skin.

"Look at us," the reflection whispered.

"I’m not looking," Kian closed his eyes tight. "I’m not looking at you."

He crawled back to the desk, desperate for the paper. It was his anchor. If he stopped writing, he felt like he would drift away into the smoke.

Kian Adiyatma.

Kian Adiyatma.

Kian Adiyatma.

He wrote it ten more times. His handwriting was becoming a mess of chaotic scratches. The pen tip tore through the cheap paper, leaving jagged gashes.

"I'm Kian," he breathed, his forehead leaning against the cool surface of the desk. "I'm... I'm..."

He looked down at the last signature he’d written.

It didn't say Kian.

The loops were gone. The elegant slant of his father’s teaching was vanished. In its place was a sharp, aggressive signature that read something else entirely—a name he didn't recognize, but one that made his chest feel warm.

"Oh no," he whispered. "No, no, no."

He picked up the pen again, determined to fix it. He tried to draw a simple square, a grounding exercise he’d read about once. But his hand wouldn't follow his commands. Instead, it drew a matchstick.

"Check the curtains, kid," the voice whispered, louder now. "They're so dry. One spark. Just one little spark and the noise in your head goes away."

"I... I won't," Kian said, but he was staring at the heavy velvet drapes across the room.

His hand reached out toward the fabric, his fingers twitching with a life of their own. A tiny orange spark danced between his thumb and forefinger, reflected in his widening, glassy eyes.

"One spark," he repeated, his voice no longer trembling, but sounding eerily calm.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: IDENTITY SYNCHRONIZATION COMMENCING...]