The abandoned factory was his refuge, a place where he could hide his smile and let his Dark Impulse run free. That day, however, he felt a flame that wasn't his.

In the half-collapsed workshop, she was levitating. Rusty bolts and chunks of bricks orbited her obediently, as if dancing to an invisible conductor's baton. It was telekinesis, but not furious like his fire—it was refined and filled with absolute control.

Mikey froze, holding his breath, feeling something new simmering in his chest—not rage, but burning curiosity and a aching sense of kinship. He wasn't alone in his strangeness.

When their eyes met, he saw a flicker of fear in hers. He took a step forward, and a shard of glass crunched loudly under his foot. Her "dance" instantly shattered, and the metal crashed to the ground.

"Wait!" he rasped out, but she was already bolting for the exit. He didn't give chase, just clenched his fists, feeling the familiar itch under his skin—his power's response to hers.

"Who are you? And... are you afraid of your power too?" he whispered into the emptiness, knowing the answer had already become the most important thing in his life.