Of all those born with superpowers, his was none like other. When he clasps his hands close and opens them like a chest, he would be able to unleash something unknown.
Sometimes it would be streams of fire, gusts of air, or streaks of lightning. But sometimes, they would be butterflies. There was no way for him to control what came out.
Many years later when he and his old friend meet up, they sat in their old school desks, with backs tattooed to match one another.
“Of all the tattoos of Pandora’s Box, why that one,” his friend, who controlled time, asked him.
“Because this,” he turned to him, and drew a line of black in the air.
At the peak of his power, he can pull things into the void. Anything that touches the line of black will be pulled into nothingness, never to return unless it is by his hands.
It might have had something to do with his change in personality, perhaps jaded by the world, no longer giving, but only taking, collapsing in on himself, while he pulled everything into a pitch blackness.