No one could say exactly when it began.

  Only that, slowly, the world stopped feeling familiar.

  At first, the news channels treated it like a curiosity—short segments tucked between weather reports and market updates. A man in another city accidentally shattered streetlights with a touch. A child screamed in fear and sent soundwaves rippling through her home. A factory worker froze an entire pipeline when he panicked.

  The anchors smiled as they spoke.

  > “Is this the next stage of human evolution?”

  “Experts say there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Samaye watched these broadcasts every evening while his mother prepared dinner. He noticed how often the footage cut away just before things became uncontrollable.

  At school, history lessons began changing.

  Teachers spoke of myths and legends—of gods who wielded lightning, heroes who bent nature, kings who ruled through supernatural strength. Those stories had always felt distant, exaggerated.

  But this was different.

  These people weren’t born in ancient times.

  They weren’t worshipped.

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  They lived next door.

  In one video shown during assembly, a man stood in shock as flames crawled across his palms. He wasn’t attacking anyone. He wasn’t a villain.

  He was terrified.

  The fire spread before he could stop it.

  That was when society realized something frightening.

  Power didn’t ask for permission.

  ---

  Not everyone who awakened could control themselves.

  A woman with ice abilities cracked the roads beneath her feet whenever she lost focus. A boy with telepathy collapsed after hearing too many thoughts at once. Some powers weren’t even visible—people who could influence emotions, distort sound, or twist electricity without understanding how.

  These weren’t weapons.

  They were accidents waiting to happen.

  Slowly, without anyone officially announcing it, the definition of normal changed.

  People with abilities stopped riding public transport.

  Shops refused them service.

  Landlords rejected applications quietly.

  Fear didn’t shout.

  It stepped back.

  Governments responded with reassurance.

  They introduced a new term—Ability Users—and promised protection, training, and structure. Special identification cards. Dedicated institutions. Separate regulations “for everyone’s safety.”

  On paper, it looked fair.

  And for a while, it worked.

  Ability users were recruited into disaster response units, enforcement teams, and private agencies. One name appeared often in the news—FAW, a specialized organization said to handle matters too delicate for public forces.

  “See?” Arjun said one afternoon, pointing at the screen. “They’re making the world safer.”

  Samaye didn’t reply.

  He had noticed something else.

  The same channels that praised ability users rarely showed civilians speaking anymore.

  ---

  As years passed, the balance shifted.

  Those with stronger abilities gained higher status.

  Those without learned to stay quiet.

  Elections were postponed “temporarily.”

  Emergency laws extended “just in case.”

  Oversight committees vanished without explanation.

  People didn’t protest loudly.

  They adjusted.

  Power had become authority.

  And authority had stopped asking for consent.

  Samaye once overheard his father speaking late at night, his voice low, tense.

  “They’re using ability users to clean their own mess,” he said. “And calling it stability.”

  A pause.

  “No,” he added softly. “This isn’t unity. This is fear pretending to be order.”

  Samaye stood silently outside the room, listening.

  The world hadn’t collapsed overnight.

  It had bent.

  And no one noticed how hard—until it was too late.