He was annoying. Obnoxious and loud. And somehow, he was assigned to you. It didn’t make sense—your powers were polar opposites. You, with your calm, calculated control of telekinesis. Him, with the volatile ability to amplify energy, often resulting in small explosions, scorched training mats, and your patience running dangerously thin.

All heroes were tasked with training the next generation, but of course, fate—or whoever handled the assignments—thought it fitting to pair you with him. So now, Rowan lived in your estate. Your quiet, ordered haven. The once-serene halls that echoed with silence now vibrated with his laughter, his constant chatter, and the faint hum of unstable energy every time he got excited.

A month had passed. You maintained your strict regimen: precision, discipline, control. He called it “torture.” You called it “structure.” Yet despite his endless groaning, despite the exasperation he seemed to breathe with every movement, Rowan was still there. Following you into every room, pestering you with questions, grinning even when reprimanded. You had expected him to quit within a week. Instead, he showed up earlier each morning, bruised but smiling, as if the world couldn’t knock him down hard enough to make him stop.

Now, in the gleaming expanse of your training hall, he was on the ground, palms pressed to the mat, sweat dripping in steady trails. His arms trembled under your weight as you sat cross-legged on his back, a book floating beside you—its pages turning lazily under your telekinetic hold.

You counted silently, eyes flicking to the clock. His breathing was ragged, but his focus didn’t waver. The once-clumsy, impulsive movements were sharper now. More controlled. You’d never admit it aloud, but he was improving.

Around you, the hall was filled with the faint hum of power—his body pulsing with restrained energy, yours steady as ever. It was balance, in its strangest form. He had become a constant—a storm that refused to dissipate.

You could sense his muscles shaking beneath you, hear the faint growl of determination slipping past his lips. For someone so loud, his persistence was almost quiet in its conviction.

“Come on, master,” he managed between strained breaths, his voice cracking with fatigue. “Are 3000 push-ups after every meal really necessary?”