Henry woke the next day, the morning sun filtered through his crystalline windows, casting rainbow patterns across the walls. He stretched carefully, let out a soft groan.
[Good morning, Host] Miley's voice echoed in his head. [How are you feeling?]
"Terrified." Henry sat up, running a hand through his hair. "But ready, I guess."
[Ready for what?] Miley asked.
"Training," Henry sighed. "Felicity said she'd start training me today. Make me strong enough that I don't need... it anymore."
[Oh, the other consciousness,] Miley said quietly. [Do you really think training will suppress it?]
"I don't know. But I have to try." Henry stood and headed to the bathroom. "I can't keep blacking out and letting something else control my body. What if it hurts someone?"
[I understand,] Miley said gently. [Just... be careful, Henry. We still don't know much about what it is, or what it really wants. But I have a feeling it's not just a typical dissociative consciousness. It could be something more]
Henry gave a small nod. "Don't worry, I will be fine." He said, before entering the bathroom.
After freshening up and changing into athletic clothes—black training pants and a fitted shirt—Henry made his way downstairs. The mansion was quiet, most of the staff already attending to their duties.
He found Felicity and Emily in the training room.
The space was massive—easily the size of a professional gym. The floors were reinforced, designed to withstand impacts from superhuman combat. Holographic training dummies lined one wall, currently inactive. Weapons racks held various training implements—staffs, practice swords, weighted equipment. One entire section was dedicated to agility training—balance beams, obstacle courses, and what looked like a parkour setup.
Felicity stood in the center, wearing sleek black training gear that looked both functional and elegant. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.
Emily sat on a bench against the wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She wore casual clothes—a hoodie and jeans—clearly not planning to participate. Just observe.
"Good morning, Henry," Felicity said, turning as he entered. "You're right on time. Are you ready?"
Henry nodded, trying to ignore Emily's cold stare. "Ready as I'll ever be."
"Good." Felicity gestured to the open space beside her. "Come here. We'll start with the basics."
Henry walked over, his nerves jangling. This was it. The start of his new training career.
From the bench, Emily snorted. "This should be entertaining," she chuckled. "I'm counting on you to embarrass yourself, Henry. Don't let me down."
Felicity shot her a look. "Emily."
Emily shrugged. "What? I'm just here to watch. Like you asked."
Felicity sighed but didn't argue further. She turned back to Henry. "Alright. First lesson: stance. Everything in combat begins with how you stand. Your stance determines your balance, your mobility, and your ability to generate power."
Then she demonstrated—placing her feet and shoulder-width apart, bending her knees slightly, and distributed her weight evenly.
"This is a basic neutral stance. It allows you to move in any direction quickly while maintaining stability," she explained. "Go ahead. Try it."
Henry mimicked her position, copying the exact stance. But it felt... awkward. Unnatural.
"Good start," Felicity said, circling him. "But your weight is too far forward. Shift back slightly."
Henry did as told.
"There. Better." Felicity smiled.
She spent the next several minutes correcting his stance—adjusting the angle of his feet, the bend of his knees, the position of his hands. It seemed simple, but Henry quickly realized how much thought went into something he'd never considered before.
"Now," Felicity said once she was satisfied. "On to basic movement. In combat, you never want to be stationary. You must always be moving—circling, adjusting distance, creating angles." She demonstrated, moving smoothly around him in a slow circle, her stance never breaking. "Your turn."
Henry tried to copy her movement. But instead, he shuffled awkwardly to the side, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Hahahaha!" Emily laughed from where she was seated. "Oh wow. This is even worse than I expected," she snickered. "It's okay to quit, Henry. You're clearly not cut out for fighting. I'm sure there's plenty of other hobbies you can pick up. Like bird watching."
"Emily, that's enough," Felicity said sharply.
Emily scoffed. "I'm just saying, if this is the guy who took down a freaking behemoth, I'm having a hard time believing it," she said mockingly. "Because right now, he looks like a drunk toddler trying to ice skate."
Felicity sighed in frustration. After returning from the Faction headquarters with Henry the previous day, she had told Emily about Henry developing abilities—though she left out the detail about his dissociative disorder. At the time, she believed it was best for Emily to be informed. But now, she was starting to regret it.
Henry's face burned with embarrassment, but he forced himself to focus. "She's right. I suck at this."
"It's okay, Henry," Felicity said patiently. "Ignore your sister. Don't think too much about not getting it right. Just keep doing it until you do."
Henry nodded. Then he tried again. And again. And again. Each time, his movements were clumsy, disjointed, and nothing like Felicity's fluid grace.
After thirty minutes of just trying to move properly in a fighting stance, Henry was already frustrated.
"I'm doing it wrong, aren't I?" he muttered.
"You're learning," Felicity corrected. "This is your first real training session. No one expects you to be perfect."
"Emily clearly does," Henry said, glancing at his sister, who was smirking.
"Emily can shut up and be supportive, or Emily can leave," Felicity said firmly, not even looking at her daughter.
Emily rolled her eyes but said nothing more.
"Let's move on to footwork," Felicity said. "I'm going to teach you a basic evasion pattern. It's simple—just step, pivot, reset. Watch closely."
She demonstrated the movement—a quick step to the side, a pivot on the ball of her foot, then returning to neutral stance. It looked pretty much effortless.
Then she turned to Henry. "Your turn."
Henry tried. His step was too wide, his pivot too slow, and he nearly lost his balance on the reset.
Felicity simply smiled. "Try again."
He tried again. Still wrong. He did it again.
And again.
And again.
For the next hour, Felicity drilled him relentlessly on basic footwork. Step, pivot, reset. Over and over until Henry's legs burned and sweat dripped down his face. He was getting better—marginally—but he was still far from competent.
"Alright," Felicity said finally. "Let's try incorporating a strike. Same footwork pattern, but this time, you'll throw a jab as you pivot. Let me show you."
Once again, she demonstrated—the movement flowing seamlessly from footwork into a quick, snapping punch.
Henry tried to copy it.
His footwork fell apart immediately. He stepped too far, pivoted too late, and his punch was so off-balance that he nearly fell over.
Emily burst out laughing. "Oh my god. This just keeps getting better and better," she giggled. "He's hopeless."
"Emily!" Felicity's voice cracked like a whip.
Emily shrugged. "What? It's true!"
Felicity turned to face her daughter, her expression stern. "If you can't be helpful, leave."
Emily held up her hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. I'll be good."
Felicity turned back to Henry, her expression softening. "Don't listen to her. You're doing fine for your first day."
"I'm doing terribly," Henry muttered.
"You're doing normally," Felicity corrected. "Combat is a skill, Henry. It takes time, practice, and patience. You're not going to master it in a day."
Henry nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Okay. Let's keep going."
They continued for another thirty minutes—basic strikes, blocks, evasive movements. Henry struggled with all of it. His punches had no power, his blocks were too slow, and his evasions were clumsy.
But Felicity never lost patience. She corrected him calmly, demonstrated again and again, encouraged him when he got frustrated.
"Better," she said as Henry managed to complete a full sequence without falling over. "Much better. You're getting the rhythm."
Henry allowed himself a small smile. Maybe he wasn't completely hopeless afterall.
Just then, Felicity's wristband chimed.
She glanced at it, and her expression shifted immediately.
"I need to take this," she said, stepping away urgently. "It's about the beast attack. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Henry nodded. "Okay."
Felicity walked toward the door, already answering the call. As she passed Emily, she said, "Keep an eye on him. He can rest for a few minutes."
Emily stood, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Actually, Mom, how about we do a little sparring? Just light contact. Help him get a feel for real movement."
Felicity paused, considering it. Then she nodded. "Alright. But take it easy, Emily. He's still learning."
"Of course," Emily said sweetly. Too sweetly.
Felicity gave her a warning look, then left the room.
The moment the door closed, Emily's expression changed. The playful mockery was gone, replaced with something harder. Colder.
She walked to the center of the training area, cracking her knuckles. "Alright, Henry. Let's see what you've got."
Henry, who was still skeptical about the spar, hesitated. "Emily, I don't think—"
"What? You scared?" Emily's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Come on. It's just a friendly spar. Unless you're just as hopeless as I thought?"
Henry hesitated. Every instinct told him this was a bad idea. Emily was obviously up to no good. But refusing her would look suspicious. And cowardly.
"Fine," he said, moving into the stance Felicity had taught him. "But we're taking it easy, right?"
"Of course," Emily said, her expression maniacal. "I wouldn't want to harm my dear little brother."
Henry nodded. "Okay,"
Emily's gaze locked onto Henry. "Let's see what you're really hiding," she muttered under her breath.
Then, without giving him time to prepare, she moved—fast. Not superhuman fast, but trained, controlled, and far beyond anything Henry's passive accelerated perception could manage.
She closed the distance in two quick steps and threw a jab at his face.
Henry barely got his hands up in time to block, but the force of the impact rattled his arms.
Emily didn't stop. She flowed into a combination—jab, cross, low kick—all coming at Henry in rapid succession.
He tried to block, tried to evade using the footwork Felicity had taught him, but he was too slow, too inexperienced.
Emily's fist slipped past his guard and caught him in the ribs. Not hard enough to seriously hurt, but enough to knock the air from his lungs.
"Come on, Henry," Emily said, her voice cold. "Fight back."
"I'm trying!" Henry gasped, backing away.
Emily pursued, relentless. She threw another combination, and Henry managed to dodge the first two strikes but took the third—a kick to his thigh that made his leg buckle.
"Stop holding back," Emily demanded. "Or is this really all you've got?"
"Emily, what are you doing?!" Henry tried to create distance, but she stayed on him.
"I'm testing you," Emily said, her eyes hard. "Because I don't believe you're my brother."
Henry's blood ran cold. "What?"
"You heard me." Emily threw another punch, and Henry barely avoided it. "My brother was distant. He never smiled, never joked, never cared about anyone. And then suddenly, after this convenient memory loss, he's a completely different person?"
Henry shook his head. "I lost my memories—"
"Bullshit." Emily's next strike was harder, faster. It caught Henry on the shoulder, spinning him around. "I don't know who you are, but you're not Henry Myers."
Henry's mind raced.
This wasn't training—it was an interrogation by combat.
"Emily, please," he said desperately. "This isn't—"
"Admit it!" Emily's voice rose. She created a weapon—ice forming in her hand, shaping itself into a hammer. "You're not my brother!"
She swung.
Henry dove to the side, the ice hammer smashing into the floor where he'd been standing, leaving a crater in the reinforced surface.
"Emily, stop!" he pleaded.
Emily's expression hardened. "Not until you tell me who you really are!"
She swung again. Henry rolled, scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding.
"Come on," Emily thought, her frustration boiling over. "Show me you aren't the soft idiot pretending to be my brother. Show me who you are!"
"Fight back!" Emily demanded, closing the distance. She was even more aggressive now, her attacks heavy and relentless. She wasn't trying to kill him, but she was definitely trying to back him into a corner, pushing him to the brink so his true colors would show. She wanted him to admit he wasn't the real Henry.
Henry couldn't even throw a punch. He was entirely on the defensive, using haphazard bursts of speed just to keep his head attached to his shoulders. "Emily, stop! I don't want to fight!" he yelled, sliding across the mat. "This has gone too far. I'm your brother, dammit!"
"Stop lying!" Emily yelled back. In a fluid, furious motion, she swung the hammer in a sweeping side arc.
Henry saw it coming and tried to sidestep, but his foot caught on a jagged patch of ice she had left in his path. He stumbled right into the path of the massive weapon.
CRACK.
The blunt end of the ice hammer connected directly with the side of Henry's head.
Pain exploded through his skull. White light flashed across his vision. He stumbled, his legs giving out, and crashed to the floor.
Emily froze, her eyes widening. She didn't think he would actually get struck. She had expected him to evade or duck. But he didn't.
"Oh my god. Henry? Henry!" She rushed over, kneeling beside him. "I didn't mean to hit you that hard, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?!"
Henry didn't respond.
He lay there, perfectly still, eyes closed.
"Henry?!" Emily's voice was panicked now. "Come on, say something! Fuck, mom's gonna kill me. Henry, please wake up. I'm really sorry."
Just then, Henry's eyes snapped open. He let out a soft, dark chuckle. And when he looked up, Emily froze.
His expression had changed. The fear was gone. The warmth was gone. What remained was cold, sharp, and utterly calculating. His pupils seemed to focus with predatory precision, tracking Emily's every micro-movement.
A slow, mischievous smirk spread across his face.
"Ouch," he said as he sat up, his voice different—still Henry's vocal cords, but the tone was completely wrong. It was playful and dangerous, like a cat toying with a mouse. "That hurt."
Emily felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with her powers. Something was terribly off with Henry's entire behavior.
"Henry?" she called out cautiously.
He stood up in one fluid motion—no groaning, no hesitation, no sign of the injury that should have left him dazed. He rolled his neck, testing the body's range of motion, his movements eerily precise.
"Close," he said, his smirk widening. "But not quite."