“Argh, is this some kind of joke? This has been routine for a long time...”

  Minato stood in the middle of emptiness. All around him was a black abyss, wherever he looked. He stood naked, as bare as a newborn, his pale skin shimmering under a veil of sticky fog.

  At his first attempt to move, he realized that his feet were stuck in something sticky and thick, like molten tar. Nevertheless, thanks to his efforts, he slowly began to move forward, while the liquid under his feet made disgusting squelching sounds.

  He didn't know why, where, or how long he was walking. Was it even a feeling that he was moving at all? After all, it was just a dream he had every night. Like Groundhog Day. And he would eventually wake up, sooner or later. Until then, he had to keep going.

  Soon his movement was stopped. There was a door in front of him, or so he thought. The gray doorknob stood out sharply against the impenetrable darkness around him.

  But as soon as his hand reached out, something grabbed his legs with a firm grip.

  “Aha, here it is. You made me wait,” he thought to himself, his thoughts calm, even boring. It was as if he were watching a movie for the hundredth time and could already predict when and what would happen.

  Suddenly, dozens of mutilated bodies emerged from the dark waters, each one distorted beyond recognition, as if stitched together from scraps of human flesh: cut in half, melted, limbless, with unnaturally twisted joints, missing eyes and jaws. Like an army of undead from some cheap zombie movie. But with one significant difference. Even though it was just a dream, everything seemed too real.

  Their hands and teeth dug into him mercilessly, penetrating his flesh, squeezing his jaw, limbs, digging into his eyes and squeezing them out like ripe fruit. He felt them tearing off his arms and legs, his muscles, flesh, and nerves slowly separating from him.

  These creatures pierced him through and through, reaching the insides of his body. They pulled them out, squeezed his heart, broke his bones. It was pure agony. Real torture that he couldn't stop. And he couldn't even scream, his jaws were pried open and stuck in his mouth, leaving him unable to utter even a quiet cry for help.

  They continued to drag him, or rather what was left of him, into the void below. He writhed, but they did not let go. Their grip was strong enough to bend metal; there was no chance of escape.

  Before the tip of his nose, the last free part, plunged into the abyss, Minato woke up. His whole body was covered in a layer of cold sweat, his very being trembling. His breathing was ragged and came in short bursts.

  “Ugh, this really has become routine...” he muttered sleepily to himself.

  Minato wiped the sweat from his face and glanced out the window. Dawn was breaking, and the dark blue sky was giving way to a bright red glow. Then he glanced at the nightstand, where his hand landed on something. Although, landed wasn't quite the right word.

  His fist had subconsciously smashed the alarm clock because of the nightmare. Now it was just a pile of metal, plastic, and screws.

  "Oh, damn it. How many is that now? I told Aya-nee not to buy new ones. They all end up the same," he said in a monotone voice, as if nothing had happened.

  Deciding to wash off the sweat, Minato slowly dragged his body to the bathroom, and noticing his reflection out of the corner of his eye, he couldn't help but sigh.

  Unkempt wheat-colored hair reaching his shoulders, dull emerald green eyes, and, as some acquaintances noted as his trademark feature, the pale face of a fifteen-year-old boy, devoid of emotion, like a doll. Only Minato had a trump card against these remarks. No doll could boast of having bags under its eyes like his.

  “Hmm. I bet a matchbox would fit in there. Maybe I should start hiding candy in them...” he said, stretching the gray skin under his eyes. But his musings about mini-hiding places under his eyes were interrupted by unnaturally loud snoring that could make the walls shake. And the source was in the next room.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  On a spacious sofa, wrapped up like a mummy from an Egyptian tomb, lay a woman with long brown hair surrounded by empty beer cans, whose ability was to sleep in any position and environment. Minato often preferred to cover his ears with something so as not to hear this ear-splitting sound, but sometimes it seemed to him that this tactic would cease to work, and his nightmares would be accompanied by the sound of shrill snoring.

  “You're setting records, Aya-Nee,” he thought to himself as he went inside and gathered the empty cans into a pile, covering her human-like form at the same time.

  But suddenly, she reached out her arms and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him into an embrace so tender that Minato felt uncomfortable.

  Although her face was still covered, she must have had a slight smile on it.

  “Come on, don't resist,” she murmured quietly in an almost motherly tone.

  “Do you have to do this almost every day? If you keep doing this, the smell of your breath will stay in my nostrils forever.”

  “If you have nightmares every day, then I'll calm you down every day. So let it be.”

  Even though she said that, it was just an excuse to hug him. She understood perfectly well that he had already gotten used to these dreams that prevented him from living a normal life, and yet she wanted to give him at least a little peace, even if Minato would come up with excuses. At least with banal human warmth and care, which were clearly lacking in his nightmares.

  He allowed himself to remain in her arms for a couple of minutes, almost suffocating in her chest, until she started snoring again and her grip loosened, allowing him to slip out easily and leave the room.

  Even though he had plenty of time before school, he decided to walk the whole way. Maybe it would clear his head. Putting on his standard men's uniform, he grabbed his briefcase and was ready to rush off at full speed. But when he opened the door, he was met with a rather unusual sight. Two figures rushed past him at superhuman speed. One of them was covered in iron. Both flew across the stone floor with a terrible crash, turning the smooth surface into a pile of rubble.

  Eighth-grade syndrome, Peter Pan syndrome, escapism, etc. These are the names given to cases when someone imagines that they have supernatural powers.

  Fire breathing, telekinesis, super strength, and much more. But for Minato and others, it was the reality. After an inexplicable phenomenon that occurred more than 50 years ago, many people began to exhibit supernatural abilities. In the beginning, there were only a few tens of thousands of such people. But with each new generation, the number of superhumans increased exponentially.

  Obviously, not everyone received the “superhuman gene,” as it came to be called. And not every winner of the genetic lottery could boast of a cool ability that would elevate them to the rank of superhero.

  Only about 50% of humanity gained new powers, and about half of the “lucky ones” received abilities that would make the ability to hear the thoughts of insects seem like manna from heaven.

  And, of course, not everyone who gained superpowers would do good deeds like an altruist and philanthropist. There were many different criminals and ordinary people who used their newfound powers for their own benefit.

  This is precisely why the Specialist system was created. People who, like heroes in comics and manga, would help ordinary people. On paper, they are brave warriors of justice who have chosen to save people as their duty, their sacred mission, even if they receive quite high salaries. But in reality...

  “Don't be afraid, kid! I won't let this vile villain continue to terrorize innocent citizens!” shouted the arrogant Specialist, who looked like a bodybuilder who had escaped from the nearest competition and retrained as a brawler dressed in a professional wrestler's costume.

  And he was holding the iron man pinned to the floor with his weight.

  Minato couldn't tell if the “villain” was scared by the muscleman's rant or by the fact that the man holding him looked like a freak from adult movies. Either way, his instinct for self-preservation told him to give up so as not to provoke his opponent into actions he might regret.

  Looking down from the bent railing of the fifth floor, Minato saw a crowd of onlookers who had decided to interrupt their rush to work to watch this event.

  And yet, not everyone chooses the path of a Specialist because of an exceptional desire to help. Those like this pumped-up thing wearing a jacket with a large inscription “Equalizer” chose this path for more personal reasons. Popularity, money, status, or something more personal. Either way, it wasn't Minato's place to judge such people... although, no, sometimes he has the right to grumble.

  “You bent my door, you jerk. You also smashed the floor in the hallway. And you almost crushed me, you show-off.” Minato muttered quietly, his monotonous voice sounding as if it couldn't exceed a certain volume, and the Equalizer, who saw the slight movement of his lips and spreading his two convolutions, mistaking the quiet curses for praise, began to show off his muscles and the dazzling smile of a Hollywood actor, suitable for a toothpaste commercial.

  Realizing that confronting this halfwit would only waste his time and nerves, Minato decided to retreat, as the film crew was already showing off on the approaches to the building.

  Then, jumping over the railing and climbing down like a primate, grabbing the handrails of the lower floors, Minato rushed at full speed to meet another badly started day in the bustling city of Tokyo.