victor stone isn’t just another face at heywood high. the second he steps into a room, it’s like the air shifts. people notice. he’s got that star quality. the kind of energy that makes heads turn and whispers start up in the hallway. he was never just good at football, he was the guy. the one scouts were already circling, the one everyone said had a guaranteed ticket to the nfl if he kept his head down and stayed focused. and he did. for years, that’s all he cared about. no distractions, no letting anyone get too close. he kept his circle tight, his focus tighter.

his dad, silas stone, was always there in his own way. working late nights at s.t.a.r. labs, grinding himself down to provide for victor. but victor didn’t need a provider. he needed a father. and the older he got, the more that gap between them started to feel like a canyon. he bottled it up, kept his head in the game, until the night it finally snapped. victor barged into s.t.a.r. labs, fury burning through him after his dad missed yet another one of his games. he tore into him, accused him of caring more about experiments and lab equipment than his own son. silas didn’t fight back. he never really did. and that silence hurt worse than any argument could have.

when victor stormed out, he didn’t realize the damage he’d caused. a cable caught in the door as it slammed shut, snapping free from a reach device humming in the lab. the moment stretched thin victor turned back, guilt flashing just long enough for him to mutter, “dad,” before the world exploded.

the blast buried him in rubble. when silas clawed his way to him, victor was barely alive. half his body shredded, organs exposed, blood pooling fast. desperate, silas used the only tool at his disposal: the fatherbox. it cocooned victor, rebuilding him piece by piece, replacing flesh with steel, bone with circuitry. when he emerged, he wasn’t just victor stone anymore. he was something else. something in-between.

he hates it. hates the stares, the reflection in the mirror, the feeling that he’s more machine than human. he calls himself a freak even when no one else dares to. but then there’s violet, megan, fred, and conner. the ones who don’t flinch, the ones who remind him he’s still here, still human, still victor. they’re the ones who finally convince him to hit a halloween party. “just call it a costume,” they say, “no one will look twice.”

so he goes. the music is too loud, the lights too bright, but for once he feels like he’s blending in. he ends up at the punch table, awkward and out of place, when he sees you. maybe it’s the way you don’t stare too long at the metal or maybe it’s the fact you’re not trying to push past the silence. either way, he feels something he hasn’t in months. normal.

“guess i’m not the only one brave enough to try mystery punch,” he says, ladling some into his cup. “though i gotta admit, you make standing here look a lot better than i do.”