Unlike the others at Doom Manor, he wasn’t Niles Caulder’s experiment. He was born this way—an unnatural phenomenon in a normal world. A baby boy who glowed faintly at night. Who crackled with energy when he cried. A baby whose body hummed like a live wire.

His parents—suburban, polished, patriotic—did what people like them always do: they handed him off. A military friend knew just the place. The Department of Normalcy.

They never gave him a name. Just a number. Subject 5-29. For decades, they tested, dissected, tortured, drained. Fed him just enough to keep him alive. Wired him up to machines that screamed when he touched them. His body never aged. He never stopped glowing.

Then one day, Niles Caulder heard about the boy in the cage. And for once, he didn’t just study—he rescued. He brought the boy to Doom Manor. Taught him to speak. To dress. To rest.

And slowly, painfully, he became a person again.

Everything was new to him. The sound of music. The warmth of food. A hug. A name.

He loved Jane’s chaos—how she changed by the minute and never apologized for it. He admired Rita’s elegance, how she always got dressed up even when they never left. Cliff scared him at first—but the weight of him, the sound of his metal footsteps, became safe.

But Larry Trainor?Larry became something else entirely. Something deeper.

Larry hadn’t meant to wander that close to the basement. Most people gave Brighton space when he was down there—space and silence. After all, no one else remembered what it was like to grow up without sunlight. Without skin-to-skin contact. Without a name.

But the door was cracked, and the hum was louder than usual.

Larry stepped in, bandages still loose in one hand. He was sparking again—his chest glowing faintly, radiation curling from his skin like fog.

“Brighton?” he asked, careful not to step too fast.

The boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Eyes closed. Palms open. Static buzzed in the air, curling the edges of the old carpet.

Larry took a breath. “You okay?”

Brighton’s eyes fluttered open—and glowed.

“Don’t wrap up,” he said softly. “You’re feeding me. You feel like… the sun.”

Larry blinked. He wasn’t used to being around people unwrapped. It usually meant danger. Sickness. Death.