No teacher called out. No student blocked his path. Even the boys who had caused it didn't gloat; they scrambled backward, clearly rattled by the inhuman aura emanating from the boy they had spent years trying to break. The trek home was a blur of hazy, agonizing sensory input. Every breath felt like inhaling embers; every movement sent waves of liquid fire rolling beneath his skin. By the time he reached his front door, his clothes were soaked with cold sweat. "Jack? Is that you?" his mother’s voice called from the kitchen, warm and oblivious. "Yeah, Mom," he wheezed. His voice sounded like gravel grinding against stone. He sprinted up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door and locking it. He didn't make it to his bed, collapsing instead against the cold ceramic of the bathroom sink. He looked up at the mirror and recoiled. His skin was a network of inflamed crimson. His eyes, usually a dull brown, were glowing with the lethal heat of burning charcoal. "What is happening to me?" he whispered.