Morning came too fast.
Mason woke up to the smell of something burned that, for once, wasn't him. He blinked against the sunlight filtering through the cracked blinds of his childhood room—still full of lava lamps, band posters, and a suspicious number of novelty mugs that said things like "Hotter Than Hell".
Downstairs, the TV was already on. Grandma never turned it off. Probably thought it kept ghosts away.
"...and in today's viral top story, footage from a New Jersey hospital parking lot is raising questions. Is this our first confirmed meta-human sighting since the Blackout Protocol of '03?"
A shaky cellphone video filled the screen. Mason's naked backside—blessedly pixelated—stood in the center of a firestorm. Agents flying through the air. One car exploding like a Hollywood blooper reel.
Cut to a slow-motion frame of him glowing, sparking, and shouting something unintelligible that the internet had already turned into a meme:
"I AM VERY FLAMMABLE."
The anchors were loving it. So was the internet.
Hashtags like #Flameboi, #ClayCrisis, and #BurnedItDown were trending.
Mason groaned and face-planted into his pillow.
Kitchen, 9:17 a.m.
Grandma Jean flipped a fried egg with the intensity of a woman who'd once singlehandedly taken down a raccoon infestation using only a broom and three cans of hairspray.
She didn't look up when Mason shuffled in, wearing a T-shirt that said "Napalm is a seasoning."
"I saw the news," she said, sliding eggs onto a plate. "You went boom."
"I told them not to touch me. Very clear boundaries. Very flammable boundaries."
She poured him coffee. "You set a Prius on fire."
"That's not entirely on me. It looked at me funny."
She finally looked at him. "You okay?"
"I feel like a barbecue accident that learned to walk."
Jean put down the spatula, crossed her arms. "You always did like setting stuff on fire. Remember the toaster incident?"
"Yeah. It started as a grilled cheese."
They ate in silence for a minute, the kind only families share—where everything unspoken hangs louder than the words.
Then: a soft fizz of static.
The kitchen light flickered. Mason's fork glowed green.
He dropped it.
"Uh... Grandma?"
The spoon next to it wobbled. Floated an inch off the table. Then burst into flame and turned into what Mason could only describe as—
"A squirrel?!"
The flaming utensil-squirrel squeaked once, did a backflip, and exploded into glittering embers.
Grandma blinked. "Okay. That's new."
Meanwhile: 3,000 Miles Away, High Above Silicon Valley
The office looked like every villain's daydream: floor-to-ceiling windows, a glowing map of global hot zones, and a floating interface scanning Mason's face from every angle.
"Clay is active," a woman in a crimson suit said. Her voice was honey with razors.
"Finally," murmured the man behind the desk.
His face was hidden in shadow, but his fingers tapped the desk rhythmically. Impatient. Hungry.
"He's unstable," she added.
"He's perfect. Prepare the others. We'll need to move before Project Ashfall tries to reacquire him."
She hesitated. "And if he resists?"
The man smiled, though no one saw it.
"Then we remind him what fire is really for."
Back in New Jersey: Later That Night
Mason sat on the roof. Shirtless. Smoking, but not in the sexy way.
No clue what he was doing with his life.
The neighborhood looked the same, but he didn't. He felt different—like there was a furnace inside him roaring to get out.
He stared at his hand as it flickered green-blue in the dark. It wasn't normal fire—too fluid, too cold. Like something alive.
He thought about the squirrel.
He thought about the agents.
And worst of all...
He thought about the fact that some part of him liked it.
That thrill. That power. That feeling of not being helpless anymore.
A voice inside whispered:
You were made for this.
"I need to figure this out," he muttered. "Before I set Grandma's garden gnomes on fire."
And that's when the idea hit.
> Spider-Man had a wrestling match. Deadpool had merc gigs.
Underground fight house?
Oh hell yes.
Below, Grandma opened the window, while he was still thinking.
"If you're gonna mope up there, at least put some pants on!"
Mason smirked.
"Why? My pixelated butt is already a national icon."
---
Midnight – Jersey City, Warehouse District
The sign was simple:
NO RULES. NO CAMERAS. NO NAMES.
Inside, the warehouse thrummed with music and sweat. A steel cage sat in the middle, surrounded by drunks, gamblers, and people with more muscles than IQ points.
Mason wore a hoodie, borrowed jeans, and duct-taped boots. A guy at the door looked him up and down.
"You fight?"
"I combust spontaneously and may or may not be immortal. Does that count?"
"…Right. You're on after Diesel Dave."
Mason stepped into the locker room and stared at himself in a cracked mirror. He didn't look like a hero. He looked like a guy who once lost a fight with a toaster and survived.
Still…
> "You don't learn who you are by hiding. You learn by burning it down."
---
The cage stank of sweat, beer, and broken dreams. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead like they were afraid of what was coming.
In one corner, Diesel Dave—a walking protein shake with biceps the size of toddlers—let out a roar that shook the metal bars. He was part gorilla, part semi-truck, all testosterone.
He pounded the poor guy in front of him into something that looked like chunky salsa.
> "Next!" he bellowed.
Then came Mason.
All 145 pounds of sarcasm, sleep deprivation, and poorly repressed trauma.
The crowd groaned. Booed. One guy threw a pretzel.
Mason stepped into the cage like he'd wandered in looking for the bathroom.
The referee squinted at him. "Name?"
Mason cracked his neck, then grinned.
> "Call me… the Hot Mess."
(A pause. Someone snorted.)
He winked at the crowd.
> "You'll be screaming it soon enough."
The bell rang.
DING.
Diesel Dave exploded forward like a charging bear on steroids.
Mason panicked—then instinct kicked in.
He dipped. Spun. Accidentally tripped over his own foot and dodged Dave's punch like a clumsy ninja.
His hand brushed Dave's massive arm—
WHOOSH.
A pulse of heat shot out from his palm like a cannon blast.
BOOM.
Dave went airborne. He flew across the cage like a crash-test dummy, slammed into the chainlink, and collapsed into a smoking heap.
The entire crowd went silent.
Dead silent.
Even the drunk guy with nachos dropped his cheese.
Mason blinked.
> "Whoa… did I just—?"
"GREEN! GREEN! GREEN! GREEN!"
The crowd erupted.
Chants. Screaming. Someone threw a glowstick. Another person fainted. A large man with a mohawk began sobbing into his beer.
Mason stood there, glowing slightly green, smoke curling from his fingertips like a villain in a Marvel origin story gone sideways.
> [To the audience]
"Look, I didn't mean to become the flamin' underdog legend of Fight Club. But when fate hands you fire powers and a crowd of drunk degenerates—you light something up."
Another fighter lunged into the ring—probably confused, possibly high.
Mason instinctively shifted—his body turned into a smear of semi-liquid smoke. He vanished.
And reappeared behind the guy.
> "Boo."
He flicked his fingers.
CRACK-POW!
Mini-explosions of fire flared across the fighter's back, sending him yelping and flopping like a grilled fish.
Security tried to step in.
Bad idea.
Mason spun, flaming hand raised, eyes gleaming like a dollar-store Greek god. "I'm trying to leave peacefully—"
He tripped again.
Accidentally slapped one guy in the face.
Who promptly caught on fire.
> [To the audience]
"Okay, that one was on me."
Another guard tackled him. Mason twisted, rolled, shot a flameburst at the cage wall.
The wall caught fire. Someone screamed, "MY NACHOS!" as flames engulfed their tray.
By the time Mason was dragged out—half-laughing, half-panting—he had knocked out four people, set part of the arena on fire, and been dubbed "Green Reaper" by a guy livestreaming on Twitch.
He waved as they carried him out, soot-streaked and slightly smug.
> [Final look to the audience]
"And that, kids, is how you accidentally become a myth, a menace, and probably a lawsuit."
---
Back Alley, Aftermath
Mason staggered out of the warehouse, bruised, sweating, and smiling like a lunatic.
"That… was awesome," he panted. "Terrifying, but awesome."
He checked his hands—no random sparking, no sizzling skin. The fire was starting to obey.
Kind of.
He slipped into the shadows, hoodie up, boots dragging. Just a short bus ride and a half-hour walk through sleepy suburbs later, he stood at the front of Grandma Jean's house.
Something was... off.
The lights were on. Curtains drawn. A sleek black car was parked out front—definitely not local.
He stepped inside quietly. No crackling fire. No aroma of sage or soup. Just voices.
> "We both know what that burst of power means, Jean."
A deep, gravelly voice. Male. Calm, but threatening.
> "He's not ready. He's barely holding it together," said another, more clipped voice. Female. No-nonsense.
Grandma Jean's voice, soft but clear: "I don't know what you're talking about. He's just a boy. Barely passed physics. Eats Pop-Tarts raw."
Mason froze just outside the living room.
He peeked around the corner.
Two people sat stiffly on the couch—one in a long, dark coat, the other in a navy blazer with strange metallic cuffs. Both were sipping tea like they weren't actively ruining the vibe of his entire week.
Grandma stood between them, apron still on, smiling like this was just a visit from the pastor and his wife.
She spotted Mason. Her eyes flicked to his soot-stained hoodie, the split knuckle, the faint green glow still leaking from his fingers.
> "Oh, honey. You're home! I made cinnamon rolls."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
The man in the coat turned. His eyes locked on Mason. Cold. Measuring.
"Looks like the fire's awake," he said.
Mason blinked. "What the hell is going on?"
Grandma chuckled nervously. "Language, dear. We have guests."