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Miller Origin Sample

I wake up to the monotonous buzz of my alarm clock, groaning as I squint at the offensive brightness streaming in through the blinds. Mornings should be illegal, especially when you’re an eighteen-year-old snarky teenager like me. If there’s one thing I’ve mastered, it’s the art of sarcasm. If life was handing out trophies for cynicism, I’d have a whole cabinet full.


My eyes refuse to cooperate with the concept of being open at this ungodly hour. I drag myself out of bed, grab my hoodie from the chair, and proceed to wrestle with it like it’s a stubborn cat trying to escape my grasp. Hoodies are my armor, my comfort zone. They say, “I’m too cool to care, but I’m also too lazy to change.”


As I finally wrangle myself into the hoodie, I take a moment to survey my small studio apartment. It’s a messy reflection of my mind—a bit chaotic, a bit disheveled, and a lot of personality. Not that I care. It’s not like anyone important is coming over. I can practically hear my mom’s voice in my head nagging me about cleanliness and responsibility. Yeah, yeah, whatever.


I yawn and stretch, making my way to the bathroom to splash water on my face and attempt to tame my unruly hair. It’s doing its best impression of a bird’s nest. As if it’s mocking me, a particularly rebellious strand stands upright like it’s on a mission to declare its independence from the rest of my head.


As I reach for a slightly expired carton of milk from the fridge—because I’m all about living on the edge—my phone buzzes with its usual lack of enthusiasm. A quick glance reveals a message from Dante, my boyfriend. Well, “boyfriend” might be an understatement. He’s more like the human equivalent of a tropical vacation—all warm smiles and quick wit, a refreshing escape from the monotony of my daily grind.


Dante: Hey, you alive yet? Don’t tell me you electrocuted yourself trying to make cereal again.

I grin and tap out a reply, my thumbs dancing across the touchscreen.


Me: Nah, just enjoying the light show. You know, my cereal needs a bit of excitement.

Dante: You’re a danger to breakfast foods everywhere.


Me: It’s my secret power.


A chuckle escapes as I toss my phone onto the couch and turn my attention back to the culinary masterpiece I was crafting. Okay, so maybe “culinary masterpiece” is a bit of an exaggeration. It’s more like a sad attempt at breakfast, but at least I had the whole “multitasking with electrical appliances” thing down to a science.


You see, I have this thing—this “power” as they call it in this brave new world of ours. Electromancy. A fancy term for being able to play with electricity like it’s a puppy and I’m its slightly terrified owner. It’s useful enough to land me a job, though. I’ve been recruited by an electrical company that thought my zappy skills would be a great asset. As if that makes me special.


The truth is, everyone in the city had some kind of power. It’s like a buffet of superhuman abilities, and we all got a seat at the table. There’s the Naturalists, like me, who can tango with nature or organic matter. Then there’s the Somatics, with their body-based powers—super strength, heightened senses, and probably a few extra bits they don’t mention in polite company. The Psionics have the whole mind game going on—telepathy, telekinesis, and who knows what else they’re thinking (pun intended). And of course, there are the Divinics, with their cosmic or divine powers that make the rest of us look like party tricks.


That’s where Dante falls. The guy can activate cells. Yeah, you heard me right. He can give a pep talk to cells and make them do things they hadn’t even considered before. I used to tease him that he was a walking, talking infomercial for the human body. But as much as I poke fun, I can’t deny the spark he brought to my life. Pun fully intended.


Dante and I stumbled into each other’s orbits during some freak storm a few months back. I’d been putting on my best brooding face, contemplating the mysteries of the universe and whether I had enough milk for my cereal when he practically danced into my life with that quick smile of his. We exchanged witty banter like we were auditioning for a sitcom, and before I knew it, I was the protagonist in a romantic comedy I hadn’t signed up for.


We have our differences, sure. Dante is the poster child for optimism, while I’m more likely to offer a sarcastic remark than a hug. But somehow, it works. He’s my partner in crime, the person who makes even the most mundane moments feel like adventures. And as much as I roll my eyes at his cell-activating prowess, I can’t help but be in awe of his ability to bring life to the smallest things.


It hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows, though. My parents kicked me out when I came out of the closet shortly after Dante and I met—a bitter fact I hold on to like a prized grudge. That’s how I ended up in this studio apartment, alone but fiercely independent. I forge my own path, pay my own bills (well, sometimes), and make my own cereal (with a bit of a spark). And in Dante, I’ve found an unexpected ally in this chaotic world where powers define us as much as our personalities. Probably more so.


My phone buzzes again, and I snatch it up to see another message from Dante.

Dante: Ready to conquer the world with your snark?


I smirk and quickly type out a reply.


Me: If by “conquer the world,” you mean “endure another day of mundane existence,” then absolutely.


Dante: Ah, the eternal optimist. 😂 By the way, got some exciting news. Paragon Diagnostics offered me a position in their lab. Looks like they need someone with a knack for cellular activation.


I nearly drop my spoon in surprise. Paragon Diagnostics is a research lab that has a reputation for recruiting the cream of the superhuman crop. It’s the kind of place where powers aren’t just accepted; they’re dissected, analyzed, and poked with more needles than a voodoo doll. And cellular activation? That’s some next-level stuff. This job is a big deal, but I’ve always been skeptical about their motives.


Me: Congrats! You’re practically gonna be a mad scientist.


Dante: Exactly! I can already imagine myself cackling maniacally while playing with those powered cells.


I chuckle, feeling genuinely proud of him. He deserves all the success that comes his way. It’s funny, though—while I’’ over here zapping circuits at the electrical company, he’s out there making groundbreaking discoveries.


Me: Well, don’t zap yourself into another dimension. I can’t deal with long-distance relationships. 😉


Dante: Don’t worry, babe. I’ll always make time for you.


Me: Good because this calls for dinner. You’re buying.


Dante: Don’t I always?


I shake my head, unable to stifle my laughter. As much as I tease him, I can’t help but feel a pang of something—is it pride? Maybe. Annoyance? Definitely. But beneath it all, there’s a hint of worry. Paragon Diagnostics might seem like a prestigious gig, but there’s a reason I’ve always steered clear of their kind. Now Dante is working for them.


Speaking of work, I glance at the clock and realize it’s time to hit the grind. The city awaits, and so does my paycheck. As I head out the door, I steal one last glance at my messy abode. It might be a disaster zone, but it’s my disaster zone.


With a sigh and a muttered, “let’s do this,” I lock up and start my journey into the day, armed with my hoodie, my sarcasm, and the knowledge that somewhere out there, Dante is making cells do the cha-cha.

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