(I have created a Patreon if you want to read the next 10 chapters of this fanfiction then go to patreon.com/7_Night )
Those mutants should be locked up. They're too dangerous to just walk around like everyone else."
The man's voice boomed from the television in the living room, sharp and indignant. He sat behind a polished news desk surrounded by four other commentators. The four oldest nodded along with practiced agreement, expressions firm and unmoved, clearly used to echoing each other's words like some self-righteous choir. The youngest of the five, a clean-shaven man in a crisp gray suit, didn't say anything. He just stared out the window behind the set, clearly bored of the entire conversation.
Dante didn't care to hear any of it.
He sat off to the side, his legs stretched out, body leaning slightly against the armrest of the couch. His arms were crossed, and his eyes weren't even on the screen—he stared toward the window, where the late-afternoon light was fading into early evening.
"Dante," his father snapped, the irritation in his voice cutting through the room like a knife. "How many times do I have to tell you? Pay attention to the TV."
Dante blinked slowly, his gaze still distant, before turning to face him.
"Well, I'm sorry that I don't want to listen to someone yelling about locking up people just because they were unlucky enough to be born mutants."
The words weren't loud, but they landed with the weight of a brick. The room stiffened around him. His Older sister face twitched in annoyance. His older brother exhaled sharply through his nose, the way he always did before a rant. His mother didn't say anything, just kept her eyes on her plate.
His father's brow furrowed, his jaw locking tight.
"How many times do we need to argue about this?" he snapped. "Do you seriously not get how dangerous they are? One of them literally messed with reality, Dante. She changed the whole world just so people would like them!"
Dante let out a breath and looked straight at him.
"First of all, I'm pretty sure the Scarlet Witch isn't even a mutant," he said, voice still calm. "And second… I can actually understand why she did it. With people like that guy—" he nodded toward the screen, "—screaming for her people to be locked up and dissected like lab rats."
That earned a sharp glare from his Brother. His sister turned the volume on the TV down slightly, but her eyes remained fixed on Dante.
"There are people out there who actually want to help mutants," he added, "like the X-Men. They're doing what they can to stop destructive ones before things get worse."
That was the final spark.
His father slammed his hand down on the table, silverware clattering against ceramic.
"I HAVE TOLERATED YOUR WORDS WAY TOO MUCH!" he roared. "HOW DARE YOU STAND THERE AND DEFEND THAT WOMAN? DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELF?!"
Dante didn't flinch.
"GO TO YOUR ROOM. NOW!"
He didn't argue. He just stood up quietly and left the room. No yelling, no door-slamming, no dramatic exit. Just calm, collected silence.
But as he passed the hallway, his voice drifted back one last time—low, sharp, and bitter.
"You're acting so offended over something you don't even remember. You wouldn't know what happened if the heroes didn't report it later. You just repeat whatever the news tells you."
That silenced the room more than any argument could've. The hallway light flickered slightly as he made his way to his room and shut the door behind him.
He locked it.
And then he lay down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling for a few long seconds before grabbing his phone off the nightstand.
The news was still open from earlier—not the same network his family worshiped, but one he followed quietly, with a little more balance and a lot less hate.
He scrolled through the headline that had caught his eye earlier.
A New School for Mutants Opens in Westchester—Led by Wolverine
The article below it filled in more of the details.
"The Jean Grey School for Higher Learning, headed by renowned X-Man Wolverine, Will officially opened its doors soon. Dedicated to the vision of peaceful coexistence, the school welcomes mutant students from around the world. According to staff, its mission is to provide education, safety, and control—not just survival."
Dante kept reading.
"While many celebrate this return to Xavier's dream, others are drawing comparisons to Utopia, where Cyclops has taken a more militant approach. The former leader of the X-Men is training young mutants not as students, but as soldiers. Critics fear that his obsession with Hope Summers—the so-called 'Mutant Messiah'—may lead to dangerous consequences."
The next part stood out.
"We don't need more weapons," one commentator said. "We need teachers. We need compassion. Hopefully, with this new school, we can finally bring back what the X-Men were meant to be."
Dante stared at the screen, the glow from his phone reflecting faintly off his eyes in the dark.
For a moment, he didn't feel like someone stuck in a house full of fear and resentment.
It was absolutely suffocating, living in this house.
When you held opinions so different—so opposite—from everyone else, especially about something they refused to acknowledge or understand, it wasn't just tense. It was exhausting.
That thought circled Dante's mind like a slow echo as he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling in the dim light of his room. The words from dinner still rang in his ears, louder than he wished they would. No matter how calm he tried to stay, every conversation ended the same way—raised voices, judgmental glares, and that familiar, bitter wall slamming between him and the rest of the house.
Dante Navarro, half American on his mother's side and half Spanish on his father's, had grown up like any other kid. There were family trips. Movie nights. Birthday parties with candles and cheap paper hats. Back then, everything felt simple. He had loved his parents, and they had loved him. The same went for his siblings—annoying sometimes, sure, but there had been warmth in the house. Laughter. Unity.
But things changed the moment he learned about mutants.
He was just a kid when he first heard about them—mutants. People born with powers. People who could fly, heal, read minds, melt metal, walk through walls, or tear through armies. His first reaction hadn't been fear or judgment.
It had been awe.
He thought they were cool. Amazing, even. He'd lie awake at night wondering what kind of powers he'd want if he could have any. There were times—quiet little daydreams—when he even wished he was a mutant.
But then… he noticed the way his family reacted whenever mutants came up on the news. The way their faces changed. The way their voices tightened. The way they always said "those people."
For some reason, his family hated them. It wasn't just dislike—it was bitter, unfiltered resentment.
He didn't understand why. Not back then.
There were so many other people with powers—superheroes, even—who weren't mutants. Spider-Man. Captain America. The Fantastic Four. The Avengers. Most of them weren't born with powers, but they had them all the same. So why did mutants get all the hate?
So he asked. Just once.
He still remembered the answer his father gave him, spoken like it was a fact carved in stone.
"Accidentally getting powers is rare, Dante. Mutants are different. They're everywhere. There's too many of them. That makes them more dangerous."
That answer… didn't satisfy anything. It didn't explain anything. If anything, it only made him feel worse—like there was a bigger truth no one wanted to say out loud. Why did numbers make someone more dangerous? Why didn't anyone talk about the fact that someone like Iron Man, with enough weapons to wipe out a city, was trusted, while someone like a mutant child with glowing eyes was considered a threat?
He had more questions than ever after that.
And as he grew up, those questions didn't fade. They deepened.
The more he listened, the more he watched the world, the more he questioned everything his family said. Slowly, quietly, that warm bond he used to have with them… started to crack. Not in a dramatic way, not at first. But little by little, piece by piece, it wore thin.
Now? Now it felt like there was a canyon between them. One built from years of silence, swallowed opinions, and fake smiles.
For years now, he'd kept his thoughts to himself. Bottled them up. Hid them behind a polite nod or an uninterested shrug. It was safer that way. Easier. But sometimes—like today—he couldn't help it. He had to let it out, even just a little, or he felt like he'd drown in it.
He didn't worship mutants. He didn't think they were all good or that they couldn't be dangerous.
But he didn't fear them, either.
He recognized the truth—there were evil mutants, and there were kind ones. Just like everyone else. Mutants weren't some separate category of beings. They were people.
If anything… if he was being completely honest with himself… the people that scared him the most weren't mutants at all.
It was someone like Iron Man, for example. Someone with unlimited resources, weapons of mass destruction, influence, and no powers at all—just sheer will and tech. Someone who, if he made the wrong call, could leave a city in flames and his publicly known as an extreme alcoholic.
And yet, his family loved the guy.
Dante exhaled through his nose, tired of the thoughts, tired of the arguing, tired of pretending.
Sigh. I guess I'm destined to argue with my family about everything, he thought.
He tilted his phone screen just slightly, letting the glow reflect in his eyes.
Maybe one day, things would be different.
(the power scaling will be like my other Fanfiction about Marvel his strength will lower or grow depending on this situation)