(INCENTIVE) MY OVERPOWERED FANTASY ISN’T GOING AS PLANNED! [PROLOGUE]

Takashi Makimura, known to the rest of the world as Deo, woke up annoyed.

Annoyance was not an emotion he experienced often. For as long as he could remember, things did not go wrong for him. Reality itself had a habit of conforming to his expectation the moment it sensed his displeasure, smoothing over inconveniences before they could fully register. Sometimes his power seemed almost autonomous. Almost alive, even. It reacted to threats he had not noticed yet, corrected errors he had not consciously willed away, and was especially attentive where his family was concerned.

Which was why, when he opened his eyes that morning and felt nothing at all, his first reaction was not fear but mild exasperation. He assumed his power was indulging in one of its rare eccentric moods. On occasion, it had withheld some minor change for a few seconds, as if amused by his fleeting confusion. He had long ago stopped questioning the strange intimacy between himself and the unseen force that answered to him.

This, then, was just a delay. A momentary pause before the inevitable punchline.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose to his feet, expecting the familiar warping of the world around him. Usually the floor warmed slightly to meet his bare skin, the air thinned just enough without being dry, and the sounds of the world beyond his windows receded to a distant murmur. Even the morning sun often became less offensive to his sight, its glare subdued without his conscious command.

None of it happened.

The floor persisted in its ordinariness with an almost stubborn indifference.

Takashi’s brow furrowed.

He crossed to the window and pulled the curtains open in one smooth motion, letting sunlight flood the bedroom. Unexpectedly, the light struck him unaltered, forcing his eyes to narrow as a sting flared behind them. He turned his head slightly, irritation welling up in his chest in a way that felt disproportionate to something so trivial.

In the bathroom, he examined his reflection as one might examine a machine suspected of malfunction. The same angular face regarded him from the mirror, and the same meticulously sculpted physique he had shaped through his power stood beneath it.

He looked fine.

He lifted his hand toward the sink and willed it to fill with something other than water. The specifics did not matter. The water could have turned to liquid gold or even wine. Hell, he might have filled the basin with brightly colored gummies simply to indulge his own sense of absurdity. 

The porcelain basin remained empty.

Takashi blinked once, slowly.

He tried again, this time pouring more intent into it, the way one might press harder on a stubborn door despite knowing it wasn’t locked. He did not shout, did not gesture dramatically. He never needed to. It had always been effortless. But maybe effort was needed this time. 

Yet, nothing.

The sink stared back at him unchanged, reflecting only the white of the bathroom lights.

An uneasy chill crept up his spine.

He picked up his toothbrush and forced himself to continue with the routine as though nothing were amiss. He had not brushed his teeth manually in years, or even taken a shower or used the toilet. Now, he applied the toothpaste awkwardly, spilling some onto the tiles, and began the slow, mundane action. 

Every scrape of bristle against enamel felt wrong and unpleasant, and consequently, his hand slipped slightly. The bristles scraped too hard against his gum, nicking it,  and he felt the sharp sting a moment before he tasted iron.

Blood.

The metallic tang spread across his tongue. Instinctively, he reached for his power to heal his injury. The taste of blood remained.

He froze, toothbrush still in hand, the silence of the bathroom pressing in around him. Then, he swallowed, but the sensation did not disappear.

He stopped brushing as his hands began to tremble.

No. That was not possible.

His power—no, he—could not fail. It was not an accessory or a borrowed tool that could stop working. It was intrinsic, as much a part of him as his own heartbeat. More so, even, in some way. 

Once, out of idle curiosity, he had stopped his heart simply to observe how it felt to die, and it had restarted just as casually. The universe could not let him die.

So this had to be some elaborate prank.

He set the toothbrush down on the sink and tried again, this time without any specific goal. He only needed proof that he still could.

Eventually, he forced himself to continue his morning ablutions as carefully as he could manage lest he injure himself more, aware in a way he had never needed to be of his fragility. 

Minutes passed, then more, and with every failure, the chill in his spine grew with an almost suffocating intensity. 

By the time he finished and stood once more before the mirror, water droplets clinging to his skin and the faint taste of blood lingering stubbornly in his mouth, understanding had replaced denial.

Horror followed close behind.

Takashi Makimura braced both hands against the sink and leaned forward slightly, studying the image reflected there again. That face had belonged to someone untouchable, someone for whom consequence was a distant thought. Now, there was only the teen.

A teen who had not been ordinary for a very, very long time.

And as he continued to stare at himself in the silence of the bathroom, Takashi finally accepted that he was powerless.