The morning sun streamed through the tall glass windows of the office building, casting fractured beams of light onto the construction tarps and scaffolding that littered the interior. The hum of power tools and the occasional crack of a hammer echoed through the space, a stark reminder of the chaos Duncan had left behind only a week ago. Half the office was in disrepair—walls patched up with fresh plaster, pillars reinforced with steel braces, and cubicles left empty as maintenance workers scrambled to finish repairs.

  Duncan adjusted his tie as he stepped into the main floor, his boots scuffing against the plastic sheeting that covered the carpet. The usual buzz of conversation was absent, replaced by a tense, almost deafening silence. Eyes followed him as he walked by. Whispers stirred like the faintest breeze, and glances darted his way before quickly looking elsewhere.

  He spotted Janice near the kitchenette, her brown curls bouncing as she turned sharply to avoid him. She clutched a tablet to her chest, her expression a mix of anger and fear. Duncan’s chest tightened at the sight. He hadn’t even seen her since the incident, but it was clear she had no interest in a conversation. Her avoidance spoke volumes.

  As he made his way deeper into the office, the damage grew more apparent. One side of the room was blocked off entirely, plastic tarps obscuring shattered windows and burnt walls. His boots crunched over stray bits of plaster and glass as he approached the corner office, where he found Ray, John, Paco, and Pablo gathered around a whiteboard covered in financial data.

  Ray, tall and sharp-featured with his usual pressed shirt undone at the collar, was mid-sentence when he noticed Duncan entering. His blue eyes met Duncan’s, and the words died on his tongue.

  “Duncan,” Ray said, his tone careful, uncertain. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Duncan raised an eyebrow, his Texan drawl cutting through the awkward tension. “What, this is my office. My job. Y’all should expect me to be here.”

  John, seated with his feet propped up on the desk, snorted and shook his head. “Dude, you beat up Graydon Creed and the X-Cutioner pretty bad. We thought—y’know—you’d run off to New York.”

  Duncan’s brow furrowed. “What the hell for? Why would I go to New York?”

  “Oilman, good to see you,” Paco said, standing up to shake Duncan’s hand. Paco’s usual upbeat demeanor seemed forced, his smile wavering. “John’s talkin’ about Westchester. Like… X-Men Westchester.”

  Duncan’s jaw tightened. He could already feel his patience fraying. “I ain’t goin’ to no school in New York. Much less joinin’ the spandex crew.” His voice carried an edge that silenced the room for a moment.

  “Man, the… guys ain’t very happy with you, Duncan,” Ray finally said, scratching the back of his neck. “They’re mad, actually.”

  “Especially Janice,” John chimed in, leaning forward now. “That laptop you, uh, threw at Creed? It had all her quarterly reports on it. She didn’t upload them to the cloud, so now she’s a week behind on deadlines.”

  Duncan grimaced, running a hand down his face. “She’s sayin’ I cost her a week of work,” Ray continued. “The clients aren’t happy. You’ve put a lotta people here in a tough spot.”

  Pablo, who had been silent until now, leaned forward with an eager grin. “Don’t listen to ’em, man. You’re the Alamo! Bro, you seriously messed up those guys. You’re like a freakin’ hero!”

  “Not a hero,” John cut in sharply, crossing his arms. “He could’ve fried us all. Hell, he nearly did.”

  “What the hell?” Duncan snapped, his voice rising. “I was tryin’ to protect y’all!”

  John stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Protect us? Protect us from what, exactly? You gettin’ shot? We didn’t sign up for this, Duncan!”

  “John, that’s enough,” Paco interjected, his tone firm.

  “No, Paco,” John shot back. “Duncan messed up. He put on a big damn show, and now the office is behind schedule, half our clients are pullin’ their accounts, and everyone’s scared to death another fight’s gonna break out here.”

  “What do you mean clients are pullin’ their accounts?” Duncan demanded, his fists clenching at his sides.

  Ray sighed, his voice heavy. “Because we don’t have mutants blowin’ up our competition’s offices, that’s why. They’re scared, Duncan. They think we’re a liability.”

  Duncan’s voice was low and tight as he spoke, anger simmering just beneath the surface. “What d’ya want me to say, Ray? I’m sorry for bein’ a mutant? I’m sorry some crazy son of a bitch tried to kill me? That what y’all wanna hear?” His fists glowed faintly, his eyes tinged red as his emotions flared.

  “I thought we were friends. Colleagues. Hell, we built this team together.”

  Before Paco or Pablo could say anything, John’s voice cut through like a knife. “That was before we learned you were a mutant.”

  The words hit like a slap. Duncan’s breath hitched, his knuckles cracking as he fought the urge to lash out. “Mother—”

  “Oilman, c’mon,” Paco said quickly, placing a hand on Duncan’s shoulder and steering him toward the hallway. “Just… take a minute, alright?”

  Duncan let himself be led away, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Paco and Pablo followed him into the hallway, away from the tense atmosphere of the office.

  “I’m sorry they treated you that way,” Paco said, his voice soft.

  Duncan shook his head, leaning back against the wall with a bitter chuckle. “No, it’s fine. Really. They’ve got a point.”

  “Nah, man. This is messed up,” Pablo argued. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t choose to have powers. They just… showed up.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Powers freak people out. Hell, I freak people out. I can’t blame ’em for that.”

  “Man, screw that,” Paco said. “We like you, Duncan. But this whole situation’s got people spooked. What if the FoH shows up again? What if someone else comes gunnin’ for you? We saw what happened at your folks’ house. It’s scary, man.”

  Duncan opened his mouth to respond, but a voice interrupted him.

  “Mr. Nenni.”

  He turned to see Sandra standing a few feet away, her usually warm demeanor replaced by a frosty professionalism.

  “Sandra?” he asked, his brows furrowing.

  “Mr. Davidson wants to see you. Now,” she said flatly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

  Duncan glanced back at Paco and Pablo, who both looked apologetic but uncertain.

  “We’re sorry, Oilman,” Paco said quietly.

  “Yeah,” Pablo echoed. “We are.”

  Duncan exhaled slowly, nodding. “I’ll see y’all ’round.”

  “See ya, cowboy,” Paco replied with a faint smile.

  Duncan turned and followed Sandra down the hallway, his boots heavy against the floor. The tension in the air was suffocating, and as he walked, he couldn’t shake the weight of their words.

  He didn’t ask for this life. But it seemed like no matter how hard he tried, he’d always be judged by the powers he never chose.

  The hallway outside Davidson’s office felt colder than the rest of the building. Duncan followed Sandra in silence, her clipped pace and stiff posture a clear signal she had no interest in small talk. The short, middle-aged secretary—who had once teased him for his cowboy boots and occasional Texan idioms—seemed like a different person now. She avoided meeting his eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line as they approached the frosted glass door.

  “Sandra,” Duncan tried, his voice low, almost hesitant.

  “We’re almost there, Duncan,” she replied curtly, her tone flat, offering nothing else.

  That was it. No warmth, no reassurance, nothing. The message was clear: she didn’t want to talk to him. Whatever he’d once been in her eyes—a bright young economist, a promising colleague, maybe even a friend—had been erased. Now, he was just “the mutant.”

  When Sandra opened the door, Duncan stepped inside, his boots sinking into the plush gray carpet. The room felt as sterile as a hospital waiting area. The blinds were half-drawn, letting in thin slants of light that highlighted the stark, minimalist decor. Davidson sat behind his large mahogany desk, his gray hair slightly disheveled and his tie loosened, giving him the look of a man running on fumes. Beside him stood a young Black woman in a sharp navy suit, her shoulders squared, her posture impeccably professional.

  Davidson glanced up, his expression strained. “Duncan,” he said, gesturing to the woman at his side, “this is Christine from HR.”

  Duncan nodded stiffly, stepping forward to shake their hands. Christine’s handshake was firm and deliberate, her nails immaculately manicured. She offered him a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “Your hands are very warm, Mr. Nenni,” she remarked, her voice smooth and even.

  Duncan blinked, caught off guard by the comment. “Yeah, I get that a lot,” he muttered, withdrawing his hand quickly. His face remained unreadable as he lowered himself into the chair opposite Davidson’s desk.

  He didn’t smile back. He didn’t even try. Instead, his expression was cold, his eyes slightly narrowed. He knew exactly why he was here, and the weight of it pressed against his chest like a vice. His anxiety, which had been simmering since Sandra called his name, threatened to boil over. He clenched his hands tightly against his knees, his shoulders trembling ever so slightly.

  Davidson leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he folded his hands together. His lips pressed into a thin, hesitant line. “Duncan, we brought you here to talk about… the events of last week.”

  Duncan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once. “I see,” he said flatly.

  Davidson rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze shifting awkwardly between Christine and Duncan. “Look, the situation’s caused a lotta disruption. The kind of disruption that doesn’t just stay in-house. It’s gone up the chain. Hell, the CEO’s been dealin’ with calls about it all week.”

  Duncan exhaled sharply through his nose. “I reckon that’s expected.”

  Davidson hesitated, his eyes darting to Christine. It was clear he didn’t want to say what came next. His lips parted, but no words came out. After a tense pause, Christine took over, her tone as measured as her posture.

  “Well, Mr. Nenni,” she began, folding her hands in front of her, “after careful consideration of the events that occurred, we regret to inform you that we will be terminating your contract with America Bank. Effective immediately.”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Duncan blinked, the full weight of the statement slamming into him. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral, even as his chest tightened. He leaned forward slightly, gripping the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles whitened.

  “What?” His voice was low, disbelieving. “How can y’all do that to me? I tried to protect this office. I tried to protect the people here!”

  Christine’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened slightly, as though she’d anticipated this reaction and prepared for it. “We’re aware of your intentions, Duncan,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “However, the damage caused by your actions was substantial. You frightened your coworkers and caused severe physical damage to the Plaza. Structural beams had to be replaced, which alone cost the company thousands of dollars.”

  Duncan shook his head, his voice rising slightly. “I was tryin’ to protect myself! Protect everyone from Creed and the X-Cutioner!”

  “We understand,” Christine replied, her voice steady, unyielding. “That’s why there’s no liability suit or police report being filed against you.”

  “Wait—” Duncan’s brow furrowed. “Y’all didn’t call the police on Creed?”

  Christine hesitated, glancing briefly at Davidson. Her response was careful, deliberate. “We’re afraid that wasn’t possible.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Duncan muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face.

  Davidson leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “Look, Duncan,” he said, his voice low and tired. “I know this ain’t what you wanna hear, but… your time with the company’s been short, and, uh, well… we appreciate what you’ve done for us. Truly. Especially those models of yours. They’ve been real valuable.”

  Duncan straightened, his eyes narrowing. “Valuable?” he repeated, his tone sharp. “Do y’all even realize that my model on superhuman impact on credit quality is being used across the entire bank? Look, I can do more... Why waste me like this?”

  Davidson nodded reluctantly. “We’re aware, Duncan.”

  Christine cut in smoothly. “Your contributions to credit risk modeling and both macroeconomic and microeconomic analysis have been significant, Mr. Nenni. That’s why we are offering you a severance package of one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Duncan’s head jerked back slightly, his expression darkening. “That ain’t even my yearly salary,” he snapped.

  Christine’s voice remained even, diplomatic. “We believe the severance package is sufficient, given the circumstances surrounding your contract.”

  Duncan barked a bitter laugh, his anger bubbling to the surface. “Circumstances? What, protectin' the office... or bein' a damn mutant?”

  Christine opened her mouth to respond, but Duncan cut her off, his voice rising. “Don’t y’all preach about diversity and inclusion every goddamn year? Eight years y’all’ve been draggin’ that banner around, and now it don’t extend to people like me?”

  “Mr. Nenni,” Christine said firmly, her tone carrying a warning, “please refrain from raising your voice.”

  “Well, excuse me if I’m pissed off!” Duncan growled, leaning forward. His hands gripped the armrests again, faint wisps of blue plasma flickering around his fingers. “Do y’all have any idea how many hours I’ve spent buildin’ those models? How much time I’ve poured into those goddamn reports y’all wave at investors like it’s a fuckin’ pet trick? I did that—me. Every goddamn equation, every statistical significance, every error, every correlation. I worked my ass off, and now y’all wanna toss me out like garbage. Screw you, Davidson.”

  “DUNCAN!” Davidson barked, his voice cutting through the room. He stood abruptly, his hands slamming down on the desk. “People could’ve died! People are scared, for God’s sake! Do you think this is easy? Do you think I wanted this? We spent nearly a hundred thousand just on repairs, not to mention the PR nightmare this’s caused!”

  “Repairs?” Duncan shot back, standing as well. “The only reason there were repairs needed in the first place is ’cause you wanted to put the FoH’s bonds on the market!”

  Davidson’s face flushed, and for a moment, he looked genuinely angry. “And didn’t I agree to pull ’em? Didn’t I listen to you and pull the damn bonds?”

  “So what?!” Duncan shouted. “You knew Kane was Creed! Don’t act like you didn’t!”

  Davidson froze, his jaw tightening. His shoulders sagged as he ran a hand through his hair. “I made a mistake,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I didn’t expect him to…”

  “To try to kill me? To try to kill us?” Duncan snarled. “Why? ’Cause you thought bein’ human made you safe? Newsflash, Davidson—they don’t care ’bout collateral!”

  “Mr. Nenni! Mr. Davidson!” Christine interrupted, her voice sharp and authoritative, trying to regain control of the escalating conversation.

  “Not now,” Davidson and Duncan snapped in unison, their anger momentarily united.

  “People are scared,” Davidson said, his voice rough but quieter now, as though exhaustion had finally caught up with him. He sat heavily back into his chair, rubbing his temples. “Clients are floodin’ to the competition. They don’t want the risk… they don’t want mutant politics.”

  Duncan’s eyes burned as he stared at the man he’d once respected, his fists clenched at his sides. He was trembling now, not from fear but from the sheer effort of holding himself together. His voice came out low, tinged with bitterness.

  “So that’s what I am, huh?” Duncan said, his tone sharp and cutting. “Just a mutant. Not an economist, not an employee, not an individual. Just The Mutant. That’s all y’all see—the red glowin’ eyes, the plasma hands.” His lip curled in a bitter smirk as he gestured to himself. “I’m just a mutant. Hell, might as well slap a goofy X on my forehead and call it a day, right?”

  Christine, who had been watching him with a carefully measured expression, spoke up, her tone still calm but firmer now, as if she was trying to contain the growing tension in the room. “Well, Mr. Nenni,” she said, folding her hands neatly in front of her, “you certainly didn’t mind concealing it for the two years you worked here.”

  Duncan’s eyes snapped to hers, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. His voice dropped an octave, laced with anger barely held in check. “And why d’ya think that, Genius?” he spat. “’Cause I wouldn’t’ve been hired otherwise. I would’ve been ‘The Mutant Risk’ before I even got through the door.”

  Davidson interjected, his tone defensive, almost pleading. “It ain’t like that, Duncan.”

  “The hell it ain’t!” Duncan shot back, his voice rising as he leaned forward, the plasma in his hands flickering faintly. He gestured to the desk between them. “I’m literally bein’ fired for bein’ a mutant! Y’all can dress it up however you like, but that’s what this boils down to!”

  Christine kept her composure, her gaze unwavering. “You’re being terminated,” she said, her tone cold and professional, “because you endangered the lives of your coworkers, destroyed company property, conducted several acts of vigilante justice, and severely injured two individuals.”

  “Two damn terrorists!” Duncan roared, his hands slamming onto the desk, the faint smell of ozone filling the air as his plasma energy flared briefly. “They came after me—they came after us! What the hell was I supposed to do?!”

  “It doesn’t matter, Duncan,” Christine said, her voice tightening ever so slightly as she leaned back, putting some distance between herself and his outburst. “Regardless of intent, the damage has been done. Your actions caused harm, disrupted operations, and created an environment of fear among your colleagues. I am… terribly sorry, but this is the decision we’ve reached.”

  “You’re sorry?” Duncan scoffed, shaking his head as a bitter laugh escaped him. He turned his glare back to Davidson. “You shouldn’t have struck that damn deal, Davidson. None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t been so eager to get in bed with the FoH.”

  Davidson looked down at the desk, his shoulders sagging. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, his fingers tapping absently against the polished wood. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

  “I know,” he admitted, his voice quiet, almost hollow. He looked up at Duncan, his expression weary. “I know I shouldn’t’ve. I made a mistake. I didn’t think it’d…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

  “To try to kill me?” Duncan finished for him, his voice dripping with venom. “To try to kill all of us?” He leaned forward again, his eyes narrowing. “What’d you think, huh? That bein’ human would make you safe? That they’d just leave you alone while they came after me? They don’t give a damn about collateral, Davidson. They never have.”

  The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning. Duncan stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

  Christine cleared her throat, regaining control of the room. “Mr. Nenni,” she said, her tone softer but still firm. “We understand that this is difficult. And we acknowledge the contributions you’ve made to this company during your time here. Your work has been exceptional. But this is the decision that has been made. I hope you’ll respect it.”

  Duncan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared down at the termination letter Davidson slid across the desk toward him. His name was printed neatly at the top, followed by the sterile, impersonal language of corporate termination. His hand hovered over the pen for a moment, trembling slightly.

  Finally, he picked up the pen and signed his name in sharp, angry strokes. He shoved the paper back across the desk, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

  Davidson hesitated, as though he wanted to say something, then finally spoke. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said quietly, “you’re one of the good ones, Duncan. Mutant or not, you’re a good man.”

  Duncan froze, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Davidson. For a long moment, the room was silent, the tension palpable. Then, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he turned toward the door.

  “One of the good ones,” he muttered under his breath as he reached for the doorknob. “Fuck you, Davidson.”

  The office floor was quieter than it had been when Duncan arrived that morning, but the silence had changed. It was no longer the cold, awkward quiet of people avoiding his gaze—it was heavier, denser. The kind of silence that pressed against your ears, as if the entire room were holding its breath. Every step he took felt amplified, the soles of his boots thudding against the carpet as he made his way back to his desk.

  He could feel the weight of every pair of eyes on him, feel the whispers that sprang up the moment he passed, only to fall silent again when he got too close. Colleagues he’d once shared lunches and late-night projects with now averted their gazes, their expressions a mix of pity, unease, and guilt.

  When he reached his desk, Duncan set the cardboard box he’d brought with him down with a soft thud. He stared at his desk for a moment, at the clutter of papers, pens, and personal items scattered across it. This had been his space—his little corner of the world where he’d poured himself into his work, where he’d built a reputation as a reliable teammate and a damn good economist.

  Now, it felt hollow.

  He exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp in the stillness, and began packing. His movements were mechanical, almost robotic. Papers and files went in first, followed by books and manuals, their covers worn from hours of use. He grabbed the small cactus he’d kept on the corner of his desk—an ironic gift from Paco, who’d joked that it was "the most Texan plant" he could think of. The plant went into the box, its tiny spines brushing against his fingers.

  Finally, he reached for the photo. It was a candid shot taken during the last holiday party—a group picture of his team crammed into the corner of the break room, all smiles and bad Christmas sweaters. He stared at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the glass, smudging it with faint fingerprints. Then he placed it on top of the pile, its weight feeling heavier than it should’ve been.

  At the last moment, his eyes landed on the cowboy hat he’d left on a nearby shelf, a decoration that had become a running joke among his coworkers. He picked it up, hesitated for a moment, then placed it on his head. The brim cast a shadow over his face, but it did little to hide the tension in his jaw, the red shimmer in his eyes.

  Something inside him shifted then—some tether he’d been holding onto finally snapped. He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care if they stared, didn’t care if they whispered, didn’t care if they were afraid. His hands began to glow faintly, the soft blue plasma that hummed beneath his skin seeping out and dancing along his fingertips. His boots lifted off the carpet as he floated a few inches into the air, the hum of his energy filling the silence as he rose.

  He drifted down the hallway, his coworkers stopping in their tracks to watch him. The whispers stopped entirely now, replaced by wide-eyed stares as Duncan made his way to a trash can near the corner of the room. Without a word, he tipped the box, dumping its contents into the bin. The papers and books landed in a crumpled heap, the cactus toppling onto its side. The photo frame hit the edge of the bin and fell to the floor, the glass cracking into a spiderweb of fractures.

  “Duncan, man,” a voice called behind him. He turned to see Paco and Pablo standing a few feet away, their expressions filled with worry and sadness. “You’re leavin’?” Paco asked hesitantly.

  Duncan adjusted the brim of his hat, his voice clipped. “Yup.”

  “They fired you?” Pablo pressed, his brows knitting together.

  “Yup,” Duncan said again, his tone flat, his expression unreadable.

  Paco’s fists clenched at his sides, frustration creeping into his voice. “Man, you saved us. This is so unfair.”

  “Yup,” Duncan replied, though his voice wavered slightly this time, the word carrying a weight of defeat.

  Each “yup” felt like a blow to his own resolve, chipping away at the stoic mask he’d been trying so hard to keep in place. His shoulders sagged slightly, the faint glow of his hands dimming as he turned to face them fully.

  “We’ll miss you, bro,” Paco said, his voice quiet.

  “Yep,” Pablo chimed in, his tone more upbeat but just as sincere. “You’re awesome, dude. Thanks for helpin’ us out with those reports.”

  “And the PowerPoints,” Paco added, managing a weak smile.

  Duncan let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t worry ’bout it, y’all.”

  There was a brief pause, the weight of the moment settling over them like a fog.

  “Bye, Oilman,” Paco said, his voice tight.

  “We’ll see you around, Duncan,” Pablo added.

  Duncan tipped his hat to them, his voice softer now. “Till then, y’all. Till then.”

  Paco hesitated, then stepped closer. “Hey,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “If you stick to bein’ a superhero… just don’t forget the little guys, alright?”

  “And,” Pablo added with a grin, “please tell us if you end up with the X-Men.”

  “Or the Avengers,” Paco chimed in.

  Duncan gave them a small, crooked smile—the first real smile he’d managed all day. “I won’t,” he said. “But I’ll let ya know.”

  With that, he turned and floated toward the open window on the far side of the office. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring the moment despite the bitterness in his chest.

  Coworkers gathered to watch as he passed, their expressions a mix of awe, sadness, and unease. His boots never touched the ground as he reached the window, pausing briefly to glance back at the room.

  Ray and John stood near the break room, watching silently. Ray’s arms were crossed, his jaw tight, while John leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

  “Maybe we were too harsh on him,” Ray muttered, his voice low.

  John shook his head, his expression hard. “He’s a mutant, Ray. They’re only trouble.”

  Ray didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on Duncan as the man floated out of the window and into the open sky.

  The office remained silent as Duncan disappeared into the distance, the faint shimmer of his plasma trailing behind him like a comet.