Adam shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair. His pulse was out of control. But he knew that if he stood up, ripped off the electrodes, and walked away, he’d eventually have to return and deal with whatever operation they had planned. The whole point was for him to follow these arrogant bastards’ orders—or risk Vicky being deported.

  What was the end goal here? Maybe it was to drive him insane. That way, that human bull with the attitude of a mob boss—Rune Halstein—would have a legitimate reason to lock him up in a real asylum, not this makeshift basketball court pretending to be a loony bin.

  Because everything here was designed to break him. This place was built to frustrate him, this position deliberately chosen to keep him uncomfortable. Denying him the chance to stretch his legs and pace the room? That was nothing more than a simple torture tactic—there was no scientific reasoning behind it.

  And now, he had to add Gabor’s infuriating irreverence to the mix.

  The Doctor’s words were sharp, and Adam was convinced it was intentional. Was the goal of this experiment to see how many ridiculous comments he could listen to before he blew a gasket? They claimed they were studying his heart rate, but maybe they were just winding him up to see how he handled the pressure of their taunts. Because, damn it, as infuriating as Gabor’s smug comments were, the bastard wasn’t wrong: had Trevor distanced himself? Yes. But Adam had also distanced himself—from Trevor, Lisandro, and even his countless female friends.

  Pulling away from his social circle was something he’d been grappling with since Juzo’s death, but the fact that someone like Gabor—a guy who had to be a nightmare of a person, probably with a sunken face full of acne scars and a hobby of hiding out in his basement glued to a computer screen—had the nerve to talk about the pain of isolation and lack of sex? That was a bad joke.

  Adam wanted to tell them all to go to hell, starting with the division chief, Halstein. He wanted to suggest that Halstein shove his hammerhead-like skull into the filthiest toilet in the building—along with his crew, starting with his secretary, the indistinguishable gray-suited agents, and, of course, Gabor, who hid behind a speaker and a pane of glass as if Adam were some kind of untouchable inmate. He even felt like telling the cheerful Dr. Larry from the infirmary to haul his jolly, pudgy self out of here, along with his irritating “life is beautiful, everything sparkles for me” attitude. And if this Quiroga guy Larry couldn’t shut up about wanted to tag along, well, he could go too.

  Want to know what my heartbeats are spelling out, Doc? Here’s the message: G-O-T-O-H-E-L-L.

  But no.

  Adam decided to stay put and take whatever they dished out. It was better to avoid flipping out, better to not threaten anyone or kick any asses. It was smarter to do what they asked so he could get out of here as fast as possible and pretend this Satellite Agency didn’t exist—at least until the next day, when he’d have to come back for his mission in Black Plateau.

  Think about it, he told himself. By Friday, all this will be behind you.

  “I apologize for my comment, Adam,” Gabor apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “Yeah, sure… no problem, Doc.”

  “Mr. White…” Rune Halstein’s voice boomed through the massive white hall, omnipresent like the voice of a god. Adam recognized it instantly. “I appreciate you waiting.”

  “You’re welcome,” Adam replied with clear displeasure, and looked up toward the black window.

  Behind the glass, among the shadowy figures he could make out, two stood out—one leaning over what appeared to be a control panel, the other standing farther back with arms crossed, overseeing everything. The first figure was likely Gabor, the second the Division Chief.

  “You know what, Halstein?” he said. “You’re like a genie granting my every twisted wish. I always wanted to know what it would feel like to have my privacy invaded, my social life threatened by, say, a sneaky recording of my secret, and you made that happen. Then, I wondered what it’d feel like to be locked in an asylum cell, and here I am—thanks to you, I now know.”

  “Calm yourself, Adam. You’re here so we can measure your power levels,” Gabor chimed in.

  “I’ve been sitting here like an idiot for almost an hour, Doc. The only thing you’ve measured is my astonishing patience.”

  “You may stand now,” Gabor said.

  So it was just to annoy me. This test was a deliberate ploy to rile me up, he thought, but he wasn’t about to waste the chance to stretch his legs.

  Damn, that wooden chair was torture! His legs were numb, and he rubbed them to bring back some feeling.

  It was cold. Being careful not to dislodge the electrodes, he grabbed the sides of his unbuttoned shirt and covered his chest. Did they crank up the AC?

  Roughly sixteen feet in front of Adam, a steel rod tipped with a disc emerged from the folds of the white cushioned floor. A shooting target, marked with concentric numbered rings, rose until it stood level with his head.

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

  “While we were monitoring your heart rate, Adam, we recalibrated our equipment,” Gabor explained. “It takes time for the sensors on the target to prepare for an energy discharge like yours. Quantum radiation isn’t easy to study.”

  “Actually, Doc, I think your sensors and circuits have been ready for a while now. What you were really waiting for was Halstein to show up so he could watch my little demonstration in person. Now that he’s here, we can proceed. Am I right?”

  No one responded, and a smirk spread across Adam’s face. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered.

  “When you’re ready, Adam,” Gabor instructed, “fire at the target.”

  Adam swallowed hard. His heart, which had begun to calm down, started racing again. The machine beneath his chair beeped.

  “You guys know I can’t fully control my abilities, right?” he warned. “You know that, don’t you? I’ve been firing my fireballs at the ocean because the ocean’s a big target and hard to miss. I’m not sure I can hit this target.”

  “Do it!” Halstein commanded.

  Adam pressed his lips together. Well, if they wanted a show, he’d give them one.

  With the same ease as taking a step or lifting an arm, he let the mystery inside him flow to his fingertips, forming pale, fiery threads that wove themselves into spheres.

  Caught between excitement, awe, and a tinge of fear, he brought them closer to his face and studied them as if seeing them for the first time. They glowed brightly, yet somehow didn’t blind him. He could feel their warmth, their weight. They squirmed in his hands like a handful of electric eels, writhing to break free from his control.

  Then, aiming at the target, he let them go.

  The fireballs veered apart, missing the target entirely, and zoomed straight toward the walls.

  “Shit…”

  Adam held his breath, imagining his powers exploding against the padded walls, setting the entire place ablaze.

  What a disaster! He’d warned them, but they insisted!

  Suddenly, just as the energy bombs were about to collide, additional targets emerged at the exact spots where they would have hit. These new targets absorbed the impact as if the plan all along had been for the blasts to land there.

  Adam exhaled sharply, erasing the catastrophic scene he’d painted in his mind.

  “As you can see, Adam,” Gabor said, “this room is built to handle unexpected events. That’s why we lovingly call it the White Box of Surprises. The padding is covered with a synthetic fabric sensitive to electric discharges. Motion sensors allow unforeseen events to work in our favor. Take the target in front of you—the one you missed. It’s just one of the two hundred and thirty-nine targets in this room. The entire room is, essentially, one giant target.”

  Bastard, Adam muttered under his breath.

  “Well, Doc?” Adam asked. “Did you get what you wanted?”

  “Let me explain something, Adam. The intensity of a laser or Fotias is determined by the speed of its atoms, and that speed depends on temperature. The higher the temperature, the faster the electrons release when colliding with an object. Follow me so far?”

  Adam shrugged. “If your researchers did their homework, they’d know I passed physics by cheating on my exams.”

  Gabor let out a brief chuckle that barely qualified as a laugh and continued, “So, you might be wondering: What good is temperature or atomic speed in an electric discharge if the Kappa radiation emitted by the Ita-Hu rock—according to what Division Chief explained yesterday—breaks down the magnetic field needed for them to move?”

  “Nope. What I’m wondering is when I get to go home.”

  “You might also ask: If your power destroys the rock, would each fragment still emit Kappa radiation? And if so, would each fragment have an energy shield around it?”

  Adam shook his head again. “Nah, I’m still stuck on going home. But, sure, let’s call that a good point to keep in mind.”

  “Pay attention, Adam. I’ll explain. Quantum radiation has a gravitational weight and an electric charge that vary depending on its emitter. Within the perimeter of the radiation, its gravitational weight disrupts any magnetic field, causing lasers to disperse into light, Enhanced Fluctuating Discharges to lose their destructive capacity, and, if the weight is high enough, any object flying through electromagnetic fusion to plummet. Conversely, if the radiation’s electric charge is high, it can cause overloads and short circuits in electronic devices. Kappa Points, for example, have a gravitational weight of five points and an electric charge of two—five-point-two. If their charge were higher, devices like the Auriga would be useless. Now, the radiation emitted by Ita-Hu has a gravitational weight of nine and an electric charge of one—nine-point-one. Following me?”

  “Not really, Doc. But your determination to explain the unexplainable is admirable, so go on.”

  “Good, I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Gabor said. “We measured the radiation you emit based on its gravitational weight, which is three points. Thanks to the White Box systems, we’ve now determined that your electric charge is also three points. A perfect balance. Adam, I can officially say your radiation’s electromagnetic spectrum is Kappa-three-point-three.”

  “Wow!” Adam feigned amazement. “So, does that make me qualified?”

  “Exactly. With an electromagnetic charge even one point higher, your radiation has a 78% chance of neutralizing Ita-Hu’s force field, which has a level of just one point,” Gabor explained. “This supports the theory that one type of quantum radiation can nullify another of the same kind.”

  “Well, congratulations!” Adam clapped mockingly. “Now, one more question: Will I ever get to go home?”

  The two female agents from before re-entered the room. One carefully removed the electrodes from his chest, while the other—the one named White—packed the small device beneath the wooden chair into a padded bag.

  “You’re free to go, Adam,” Gabor said as the wall panel slid shut, covering the black window.

  The curtain had fallen. The show was over. And Adam, more than ever, hated being the center of attention.

  A few minutes later, the elevator left him in the lobby.

  Vicky, who’d been pacing in circles, rushed to meet him. No need to ask, ‘How did it go?’ The storm cloud on Adam’s face and his hurry to leave the building said it all.

  “Let’s change into something comfortable and hit the desert,” he said as they climbed into the car. “I need to train and blow off some steam—now!”