OutMan The Beginning (1)

Power Up

Several hours later, consciousness crept back into him like a tide slowly rising on a shoreline. At first, it was faint—nothing but muffled sensations: the faint tick of a clock somewhere in the room, the cushion beneath his body molding to his weight, the slow drag of breath in his throat as if air itself weighed a hundred pounds. His eyelids fluttered, heavy, reluctant to open, and when they did, he was greeted not by clarity but by a haze of dim golden light that stretched across the room. He lay sprawled across a long, plush couch, its fabric soft enough to contrast painfully with the bruises still fresh on his skin. Every inhale tugged at the bandage wrapped tightly around his rib cage, reminding him of his broken state. The scent of faint lavender mixed with something more human—old leather and detergent—lingered in the air. He tried to sit, his hands gripping the cushion's edge for leverage, and instantly regretted it; the pain shot up his side, making him grit his teeth until the sting dulled enough for him to breathe again. His eyes darted around, absorbing the unfamiliar surroundings. The room itself was modest yet lived-in: shelves stacked with mismatched books and a few vinyl records, a scuffed coffee table marked with faint rings from old cups, and a lamp draped with a crooked shade, casting the soft light across walls painted in muted beige. On the far end, a window was half-covered by blinds, leaving slanted beams of late-afternoon sun crawling across the floor. The space didn't scream danger, but the uncertainty of how he ended up here gnawed at him. Then—like an ambush—the memories crashed through his head. A sharp vision cut across his mind: the man in black's gloved fist driving into his stomach, the sickening crack that followed as his knees buckled under the weight of each blow. His face flared with remembered agony as he recalled knuckles colliding against his cheekbones, leaving him half-blind from swelling. Then the flash changed, twisting darker—the man in black extending his palms outward, unleashing a pulse of pure red energy that seared through him like fire made solid, rattling his bones and lighting every nerve with agony. He remembered the scream caught in his throat, the world turning into a blur of crimson light and white-hot pain before the darkness swallowed him whole. He jerked out of the memory with a shudder, clutching his bandaged ribs, breathing ragged. And then—footsteps. The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside. A young African American man stood there, halting mid-step like he wasn't sure how close he should come. He looked to be in his early twenties, a distinct presence despite his slightly awkward stance. Dark brown eyes scanned him with a sharpness that hinted at both intelligence and concern, the kind of eyes that didn't just see you but tried to read the story behind you. His haircut was a grown temple fade, neat but casual, blending clean lines with a sense of effortlessness. Standing at 5'6", he wasn't towering, but the way he carried himself gave him weight in the room. His build was athletic, compact muscle filling out his frame without arrogance—like someone who worked on their body not for show, but for survival, for endurance. On his left arm, ink crawled over his skin: a tattoo, sharp and deliberate, partially hidden by the sleeve of his shirt but unmistakably there, hinting at stories unspoken. His clothes were just as telling—black jeans hugging his legs, crisp white Vans tied neatly, and a TGIF shirt that seemed almost out of place in the heavy silence of the room. A small smirk tugged at his lips, not of humor, but of the kind of person who wore lightness like armor. "Oh—hey. You're awake." His voice cut through the quiet, steady but carrying a note of awkward relief. He shifted his weight, scratching the back of his neck as if unsure how to follow up. "Ummm... how are you?" Donnie's eyes lifted to meet his, wincing slightly at the motion. His gaze, though clouded by pain, sharpened with curiosity. There was something disarming about this stranger—the mix of intelligence and compassion radiating in subtle ways, in his tone, his posture, the way he didn't crowd him. It left Donnie with the strange sensation of being both guarded and grateful. "Where am I? Who are you?" Donnie rasped, his voice hoarse but laced with the steel of determination. His hand pressed instinctively against his ribs as he pushed himself upright, forcing his body into a sitting position despite the agony blazing beneath his skin. Every tremor in his muscles betrayed the pain, but his eyes burned with something stronger—a refusal to appear broken, even in a stranger's presence. The room seemed to shrink in that moment, as if everything outside their exchange no longer mattered—the battered survivor on the couch, and the enigmatic young man standing before him. "Right, my name is Andrew Barnes," the young man finally said, his voice cutting through the tension like a hesitant note in a heavy silence. Donnie's eyes narrowed on him, suspicious yet too exhausted to summon the sharpness he wanted. His tone came out low, roughened by pain, "Well, Andrew Barnes... why am I here? In your house?" Andrew took a small step closer, raising his palms in a soft gesture of peace. "Yeah, umm—it's actually an apartment," he corrected with a nervous laugh. The laugh was light but awkward, tumbling out with a kind of sheepish charm, as though he wasn't used to situations like this—nursing a beaten, bloodied stranger with a secret stamped across his body. For a brief second, the laugh felt like comic relief, but it quickly dissolved into the heavy air of the room.