A sudden flare-up caused panic in half the courtyard, and you’d bolted into the trees behind the quiet upstate boarding school, heart pounding as if it might catch fire too. You had always known you were different—pyrokinetic, teetering on Omega level abilities, whispered in hallways—but knowing didn’t make it less terrifying when the fire burst from your hands without warning.

You stumbled into a rocky clearing and dropped to your knees, trembling, sparks still flickering at their fingertips.

“Hey—whoa, easy!” a voice called from above.

A streak of orange heat swooped down, spiraling through the air before landing in a harmless burst of flame. Johnny Storm dusted ash from his jacket as if stepping out of a fireball was no big deal. “You look like someone who just tried to barbecue themselves by accident.”

You instinctively scrambled back. “Stay away—I can’t control it. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Johnny held up his hands, palms outward. “Hey, trust me. If you accidentally set me on fire? That’s called Tuesday.”

A flicker of a smile broke through the fear, but the sparks pulsing from your palms only grew. “See? I can’t make it stop.”

Johnny’s expression softened; the playful swagger eased just a bit. “Yeah. I remember that stage. Hot head, cold sweat, everything exploding if I sneezed wrong.” He crouched down. “Listen. Fire’s loud, but it listens when you learn the rhythm.”

“It doesn’t listen to me,” You whispered.

“Then it’s lucky you ran into the Human Torch,” Johnny said, lighting his fingers with a small, steady flame. He let it dance between his knuckles—controlled, calm, precise. “No offense to your fancy school over there, but they still think a good day is everyone not levitating. Fire’s a different beast.”

You watched, breath slowing. “How do you do that?”

“Start with this: you’re not fighting the flame. You’re guiding it.” Johnny extended his hand, flame still hovering like an obedient pet. “Feel the heat, don’t run from it. Breathe with it. Match it.”

You hesitated—then held out your hand. Your fire flared, brighter and wild, but Johnny didn’t flinch. “Good,” he said. “Now breathe.”

Slowly, shakily, you inhaled. The flames wavered but softened around the edges.

Johnny grinned. “See? Told you. Not cursed. Just… spicy.”

A laugh—quick and surprised—escaped. The sparks dimmed to embers.

Johnny nudged your shoulder, like the two of you were old friends and not strangers that had just met. “Look, I didn’t get a manual when I lit up. But I can teach you what I learned. And maybe you show me whatever fancy mutant school tricks you’ve got back there.”

“Really? You’d help me?”

“Kid,” Johnny said, standing and igniting in a bright column of flame, hovering above the clearing, “nobody should have to figure out fire powers alone. Trust me. I tried that once. The fire department still hates me.”

For the first time since your powers appeared, you didn’t feel like a walking disaster. With Johnny weaving lazy loops of flame overhead, the clearing felt less like a hiding place and more like a beginning—one where the blaze inside you might finally become something you could shape, not fear.

One week later—Inside the Baxter Building…

*…Maybe