The morning light in the 250x Milan was filtered through a thick layer of industrial haze, turning the sky the color of a bruised plum. Alex sat at the kitchen table, his movements methodical as he prepped his gear for the day’s pylon repairs.

  The front door groaned on its reinforced hinges. Natalie stepped inside, her face a mask of high-tensile stress. She didn't look like she had just expanded their family; she looked like she had just survived a three-hour interrogation in a pressurized chamber.

  "Don't," Natalie said, raising a hand before Valenzo could even open his mouth. "Not a word about the paperwork. Not a word about the commute. I need coffee. Or a sedative."

  Behind her, a lanky teenager with messy black hair and a grin that seemed several inches too wide for his face bounced into the room. He wasn't walking so much as he was vibrating, his limbs moving with a loose, rubbery fluidity that made Alex’s structural-senses itch.

  "New house! New smells! New brothers!" the boy chirped. He lunged forward, his arm extending in a way that looked perfectly normal but felt somehow... stretched. He grabbed Alex’s hand and shook it with the fervor of a pneumatic drill. "I'm Michelangelo! Like the painter, but with better hair and fewer ceiling stains! You must be Alex. You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders—want me to carry some? I’ve got plenty of room!"

  Natalie slumped into a chair, rubbing her temples. "I thought a younger brother would be good for the house dynamic. A bit of 'normalcy' after the Guild mess. But the car ride... he hasn't stopped talking since the District 4 border. He has a pun for every street sign, Valenzo. Every. Single. One."

  Michelangelo spun around, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. "Hey, it’s a gift! Why did the 2000x Earth cross the road? To get to the other dimension! Get it? Because of the scale? Tough crowd, tough crowd."

  Alex sat perfectly still, his 31-year-old mind observing the newcomer. Michelangelo didn't have a power signature—no energy readings, no heat bloom, no "Invincible" tag visible to the naked eye. But the way he moved was eerie. When he sat down, he didn't just sit; he seemed to pour himself into the chair like a liquid.

  "So, Alex," Michelangelo leaned in, his face inches from Alex's. "I heard you’re the quiet type. The silent anchor. The 'Hush-Puppy' of the Monica household. That’s cool. I can be the noise! We’ll be like a 9th Planet duo! I’ll be the one people love, and you’ll be the one people... also love, but from a distance! Like a star! Or a restraining order!"

  Valenzo, who had been gnawing on a piece of toast, looked delighted. "Natalie, he's perfect! He’s got the 'Rubber-Band' energy! He’s like that hero from the old 2nd Multiverse archives—the one who could turn into a fire hydrant!"

  "He's not a hero, Valenzo," Natalie hissed, though her eyes softened as she watched the boy's relentless optimism. "He's a fifteen-year-old with too much caffeine in his blood. And he’s your responsibility for the afternoon. I have to go deal with the Council about the Vesuvian lava-strike."

  Michelangelo gave a mock salute, his hand snapping to his forehead with a literal boing sound that made Alex blink. "Sir, yes, sir! I shall be the model citizen! I shall be as straight as an arrow! Or a very bendy straw! Alex, buddy, let’s go see the city. I want to see if the Duomo is as big as they say, or if it’s just overcompensating!"

  Alex looked at the boy, then at Natalie’s exhausted face. He tapped a single, rhythmic sequence on the table: He’s going to be a handful.

  "A handful?" Michelangelo laughed, throwing his arms out wide. "I'm an arm-ful! A leg-ful! I'm the whole body-experience! Come on, 'Hush-Puppy,' let’s go make some memories!"

  As they walked toward the door, Alex caught a glimpse of Michelangelo’s reflection in the hallway mirror. For a split second, the boy’s neck looked just a fraction too long, a distortion that vanished the moment he turned his head. Alex's eyes narrowed. He didn't know if Michelangelo was a "normal" boy, but he knew one thing for sure: the quiet week was officially over.

  The walk to the Duomo was less of a tour and more of a test of Alex’s 31-year-old patience. Michelangelo didn't just walk; he seemed to flow around pedestrians, his joints moving with a loose, snap-back rhythm that made the 1x scale sidewalks of the 250x city feel like an obstacle course.

  "Wowza! Look at those spires!" Michelangelo craned his neck back so far it looked like his spine was made of bungee cord. "They’re so tall they probably have their own weather systems. Does it rain up there or does the sky just get a nosebleed? Get it? Because of the altitude?"

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  Alex remained silent, his gaze scanning the area for Guild remnants or police patrols. He led the boy toward the cathedral’s main buttress, where a section of the reinforced stone was currently blocked off for vibration-dampener replacement.

  A stern security officer in heavy tactical gear stood by the barricade. He was currently leaning over, wagging a gloved finger at a small child who had tried to poke a finger into the wet structural sealant.

  "Listen close, kid," the officer grumbled, his voice deep and authoritative. "This isn't a playground. You touch this, you lose a finger to the 60x suction pressure. Move along."

  Behind the officer’s back, Michelangelo’s transformation began.

  It wasn't a visible shift in biology—at least, not one that would trip a standard scanner—but his face suddenly became a rubbery caricature of the guard. His jaw dropped and lengthened, his eyes squinted into tiny, angry beads, and he began wagging his own finger in a perfect, synchronized mimicry of the man’s stiff movements.

  Every time the officer shifted his weight, Michelangelo shifted his, his body sagging and bloating to match the man’s heavy vest. He even pulled his shirt collar up to mimic the tactical neck guard, his proportions stretching just enough to look unnaturally identical.

  "Move along, citizen!" Michelangelo mouthed silently, his face contorting into a mask of comedic grumpiness. "I am the wall! I am the law! I have a very uncomfortable wedgie from this utility belt!"

  A few passing tourists started to snicker. The security officer, sensing the shift in the crowd's energy, began to turn his head.

  “...and if I catch you again—” The officer started to turn.

  Before the man’s line of sight could reach them, Alex moved. With the "invincible" speed he usually reserved for Bamboo, he grabbed the back of Michelangelo’s hoodie. He didn't just pull; he anchored his weight and yanked the boy backward into the shadow of a massive marble column just as the officer’s gaze swept the spot where they had been standing.

  "Hey! No fair! I was just getting to the part where I pretend my stomach is a riot shield!" Michelangelo protested, his body snapping back into its normal, lanky shape with a literal thump as he hit the stone.

  Alex stood over him, his expression stony and unimpressed. He tapped a sharp, warning rhythm against the column: This isn't a cartoon. That man has a kinetic stun-baton. You want to spend your first night in the Monica house in a high-pressure cell?

  "Aw, lighten up, Hush-Puppy!" Michelangelo grinned, dusting off his jeans. "I was in total control. Besides, that guy needed to laugh. His face was so tight I thought it was going to pop like a balloon! Pop! Like my ego after that last joke!"

  Alex sighed—a rare, audible sound of 31-year-old exhaustion. He looked at Michelangelo, who was now trying to see if he could fit his entire head into a decorative stone alcove. The boy might not have a registered "Power Tag," but he had the most dangerous ability of all: the power to make everyone in a three-block radius want to arrest him.

  The walk back from the Piazza was a marathon of auditory endurance. Michelangelo had spent the last twenty minutes narrating the structural history of every brick they passed, occasionally breaking into a high-pitched "Duomo Remix" where he beatboxed the sound of falling masonry.

  "And then there’s the gargoyles! Do you think they ever get tired of spitting water? I bet they wish they could spit fire like Vesuvian, but without the bad aim! Ptooey! Fireballs! Bam! Why is everyone so quiet here? It’s like a library with more pigeons—"

  Alex’s 31-year-old patience finally reached its structural failure point.

  In one fluid, near-invisible motion, Alex reached into the hidden compartment of his sleeve. He didn't look at Michelangelo; he didn't even break his stride. With a sharp thwip, a concentrated burst of high-tensile, organic webbing—a specialized tool he’d developed for high-pressure leaks—sealed Michelangelo’s mouth shut.

  The silence that followed was beautiful.

  Michelangelo’s eyes bugged out. He reached up, grabbing at the white, crisscrossed fibers. He tried to pull his jaw down, attempting to use that strange, "Plastic Man" elasticity to simply stretch the opening open. His chin elongated, his cheeks ballooned outward, and his face took on the shape of a pear—but the web moved with him. It stretched like a piece of industrial rubber, its molecular bond tightening the further he tried to morph.

  "Mmph?! Mmm-ghhh!"

  Michelangelo’s face was now a swirling vortex of distorted skin as he tried to "shape-shift" his way out of the gag, but the webbing was designed to hold back 60x atmospheric bursts. It wasn't letting go. He let out a long, frustrated grunt that sounded like a vacuum cleaner choking on a sock.

  Passersby in the Brera district didn't even stop. They looked at the boy with the distorted, webbed-shut face, then looked at the silent, calm Alex walking beside him.

  "Bamboo must be in the area," an elderly woman remarked to her friend, checking the rooftops. "He always did have a low tolerance for public disturbances. Good for him. That boy’s voice was giving me a migraine."

  "Truly a hero of the people," her friend agreed, stepping over a discarded Prism flyer.

  Everyone simply assumed the "Invincible" protector had intervened from the shadows to preserve the peace of the afternoon. No one suspected the shy, plain-faced young man holding the other end of the metaphorical leash.

  Michelangelo stomped his feet, his grunting becoming more rhythmic and aggressive, but Alex just stared straight ahead, his face a mask of serene indifference. He tapped a final, cold rhythm on his own thigh: It dissolves in two hours. Use the time to think about a new hobby. Preferably a silent one.