The competition raged on for days.
Some students had already been eliminated, dreams crushed under the pressure of combat, strategy, and sheer strength. Others clung on, fighting with everything they had. Through it all, the group—Malik, Margaret, Xander, Frank, and Peter—still stood. Bruised, exhausted, but not yet broken.
That was, until the match between Malik and Peter.
When the names lit up across the sky-cast board, the crowd buzzed. They liked a good show. From the lower classes, they cheered for Malik—an emerging enigma. The rest rooted for Peter, the known speedster, with quiet pride and a growing fanbase.
Peter didn't even hesitate as he stepped into the ring. He always opened fast. He always hit first.
But this time, his blur of motion stopped dead.
The entire arena gasped. In a blink, the momentum was gone. A touch—just a single touch—and Peter froze mid-sprint. His power faltered. His confidence cracked. He staggered.
And then Malik—the mimic—finished the fight. It took seconds.
It was the quickest match of the competition so far.
Mockery came swift.
"Wasn't he supposed to be fast?"
"Even someone from Class 1E lasted longer."
"Guess Class 1B's pride can't handle pressure."
The crowd's laughter echoed longer than the match had lasted.
Peter didn't respond. Not on the stage. Not in the halls. Not to anyone. He just walked away, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white.
---
That night, for the first time since the competition began, the group met again.
Their usual hideout was a quiet courtyard at the edge of the residential blocks, half-hidden by ivy-covered pillars and the dull hum of inactive training drones. No instructors. No eyes. Just them.
The tension could be sliced with a blade.
"I'm sorry, Peter, I—" Malik began, stepping into the circle of light under the overhead lamps.
A punch stopped the apology.
Peter's fist collided with Malik's cheekbone with enough force to stagger him back into the wall. Pain blossomed across Malik's face like a firework.
"You're sorry?" Peter hissed. "Is that what you call it? What we are—friends? Teammates? Just idiots you step over when it's convenient?"
"I didn't—"
"We helped you!" Peter yelled, stepping forward. "We trained with you. Covered for you. Margaret froze an entire training dummy field just so you could test how you react to pressure. Frank taught you how to use auras. Xander carried you more than once—and I—!"
"You humiliated me."
His voice broke.
Silence fell for a moment.
Malik's eyes burned. "That wasn't me," he whispered.
Margaret's voice followed, tight and cold. "What was that, Malik?" she asked. "We all saw it. You touched him and he fell. You barely moved."
Xander stayed silent, arms folded, watching.
"You could've done that to any of us," Frank added, staring hard at Malik. "And didn't tell us? When did your powers even awaken?"
Malik's fists clenched. "I told you. That wasn't me."
"Oh, right," Frank snapped. "Just someone who looks exactly like you. Fights like you. And apparently has the same name on the board."
"I SAID SHUT UP!"
His voice cracked like thunder.
The air rippled.
In an instant, Peter vanished.
Then Margaret gasped—ice crystallizing across her arm and shattering from her own body.
Xander fell to one knee, gripping his head like something had pulled at the very core of him.
Frank blinked and stuttered, invisible one moment, then visible the next, flickering wildly like static on a broken screen.
It all happened in a breath.
Then everything stopped.
Malik stood at the center of it, hands trembling, his eyes wide with horror. A shimmer of light pulsed at his fingertips—and then it was gone.
Everyone stared at him in stunned silence.
"You…" Margaret said slowly, breath catching. "You activated."
"No," Malik whispered. "I didn't mean to. I didn't try—"
"But it was you," Peter said, voice hollow.
His cheek throbbed from the punch. But Malik wasn't focused on the pain anymore.
He looked around, breath shallow.
"No," he said again, quieter. "I don't know what's happening. I'm not—she's not me. I swear to you. There's someone else out there."
"You expect us to believe that now?" Frank growled.
"I don't care what you believe," Malik spat back, his voice shaky but fierce. "But you better start figuring out what she is—because she's not just pretending. She's better than me. And she's using my name."
They stared at him.
And for the first time, none of them were sure who they were angry at anymore.
The silence that followed felt endless.
Somewhere in the distance, a drone buzzed to life, whirred once, then powered down again. None of them moved. Not even to breathe too loud.
Malik lowered his hand. The light was gone, but its afterglow seemed etched into everyone's memory.
Peter took a step back, his jaw clenched. He didn't look at Malik. Not anymore. His eyes were on the ground, like if he looked up, the truth might knock him down all over again.
Margaret finally spoke, but her voice was different now—careful. "If what you're saying is true," she said slowly, "where were you?"
"I was watching from the back."
Xander's arms remained folded, but a crease formed between his brows. "And no one noticed? Not even the instructors?"
Malik shook his head.
"So no one saw you?" Frank asked, his voice still taut with disbelief.
The group fell into stunned stillness.
Margaret's gaze darted around the courtyard. "Wait. Wait. If there's someone out there with your face, your name, and now your powers… then why let you stay here at all?"
That landed like a stone in water.
Malik looked up, the bruise on his face already swelling. "Because she doesn't just want to be me. She wants to erase me."
Xander finally uncrossed his arms. "That doesn't make sense. If someone that dangerous wanted you gone, you'd be gone."
"I think she needs me," Malik said, voice growing firmer. "Or at least… something I still have that she doesn't."
Margaret glanced at Frank, who looked genuinely unsettled now. "You better be telling the truth."