Rain had turned Greyfog City into a slurry of grit and neon. The drops bounced off rusted rooftops and puddles, carrying the metallic tang of old chemicals. Streetlights refracted through oil films on the asphalt, casting fractured colors that shifted like nervous thoughts.
Evan stepped out of the shadows of the old water plant. His hoodie was soaked, sticking to his chest, smelling of blood, sweat, and booster fumes. He didn't head straight to the Rat's basement. Instead, he ducked into District 3, toward a derelict water tower.
Inside, he stripped off the soaked hoodie and shoved it into the small incinerator, sparks licking the corners before the fabric hissed into ash. He pulled on a clean, faded replacement—no scent of blood, no hint of the fight in West District. Prudence was survival. Zeroes like him didn't get second chances in Greyfog City.
He tapped the terminal on his wrist. Numbers flickered in icy blue. Then a red lock icon. The bounty—his one-year supply of ham sandwiches, double cheese—was frozen.
Not just frozen. A hidden addendum blinked into existence: "Capture alive. Bounty x10."
Evan's gaze didn't move. His five-meter radius, already humming with unseen rules, responded to the threat. The rain seemed to flatten around him. Puddles stilled mid-splash. Street sounds dulled, muffled, as if filtered through a layer of cotton.
Someone was selling him out.
He didn't hurry. He moved like a shadow, over cracked pavement, past flickering neon, past broken street signs bent into grotesque angles. A leaky pipe dripped onto a fractured light bulb. Each drop hissed and fizzed—but when Evan stepped within five meters, the sound died mid-hiss, a tiny death inside his private radius.
Half an hour later, he was in front of the Rat's rusted iron door. This time, he didn't knock. He kicked. Metal screamed. Hinges groaned and snapped.
Inside, the smell of mold and stale cigarettes clashed with something new: expensive sandalwood cologne. Someone didn't belong.
The Rat huddled in a corner, hands over his head, shivering. Behind the greasy table sat three men in black Security Bureau uniforms. One of them—the blonde—tapped a coin engraved with a lion, twirling it between his fingers like a weapon. His hair was slicked back, military precise. His eyes were calm, but the smile on his face carried sharp edges, the kind that could slice flesh if given the chance.
"Evan Cross," he said. Smooth, deliberate. No emotion. "Checked your files. Nothing. No Awakening record, no mutations, no enhancements. You're… blank. So clean it makes me nauseous."
Evan didn't answer. Water dripped from his hood onto warped floorboards—tap, tap, tap.
His five meters began to expand. Not as a number. Not as a circle. It was a graveyard. Rusted city buses and miracles alike lay shoulder to shoulder, waiting for him to cover them with dirt. The room felt heavier. The air lost heat, light, and sound. Even the small taste of rain on his tongue dulled.
The blonde laughed. "Nightmare was Tier-3, junkie or not. You killed him like he was nothing. Military device? Some cult relic?"
The other two elites shifted, hands brushing vibration-blade hilts. Their muscles tensed. Their eyes flicked, but within the radius, their instincts betrayed them. Every trained response failed, every minor ability faltered.
"Unfreeze the money," Evan said, flat. Like asking the Rat to pass a sandwich.
The blonde's smile widened. "Unfreeze it? Kid, this isn't a job turn-in. You're undergoing… inspection." He stepped forward. Golden specks began spinning around his fingers. The faint heat of his power kissed the walls. "Kneel. Hand over your device. Then maybe I'll make sure your prison rations aren't all sawdust."
He crossed the radius. Five meters.
The golden light tore apart midair. Sparks scattered. Heat evaporated. The pressure in the room collapsed inward. Every ounce of control the Bureau elite had dissolved as if the world itself had denied him.
His laughter cut off. His coin clattered to the floor. Hands reached for the light—nothing. Golden arcs vanished. He staggered, stomach twisting, throat dry, eyes wide. His own heartbeat roared. The power he'd relied on for years, the thing that made him feel godlike, was hollowed out in an instant.
"Impossible," he muttered. Finger tremors, palms sweating. Teeth gritted. "What… what weapon?"
Evan took a step. Just a normal human step, but inside the radius it felt like crushing stone. The blonde flinched.
He reached out. One hand found the man's throat with surgical precision. Bones, muscles, skin—soft, mortal, nothing divine.
"I said. Unfreeze the money."
The other two agents flinched as well. Their blades hummed uselessly. Their bodies were ordinary now, vulnerable. Even their training didn't matter.
Evan's eyes swept the room. Rainwater dripping through broken windows. Dust motes frozen midair. Posters peeling off walls, superheroes with too-bright smiles. The smell of wet concrete and burnt electronics. A shadow, a Zero, and his graveyard of miracles.
The Rat squeaked. "I… I'll… it's all yours."
Evan withdrew his hand. The blonde gasped, shuddering, collapsing onto his knees, hands over his face. The hum of his Null Zone receded. The room was dark, damp, and quiet again.
Nothing glamorous—just the soft pop of a bubble every child believes is floating somewhere in the world.
Evan bent, tapped the terminal. Money unfroze, numbers blinking blue like cold lanterns. Satisfied, he straightened, hood low. No one in the room dared meet his eyes.
Rain slammed against the tin roof. The city groaned, neon dripping into puddles. The smell of ozone and chemicals mixed with the cologne still lingering. Evan left without a word. The graveyard followed him, invisible, silent, five meters wide.
Outside, a cat hissed, darting under a rusted car. A hover-bike's horn blared three blocks away. Street sounds tried to pierce his radius, but only dead silence answered.
Evan crossed the alley. Footsteps on wet asphalt. Puddles rippled. The city was alive—but he walked in a vacuum of it.
No miracles touched him. No prayers. No gods. He didn't need them. He was the full stop at the end of every incantation—and the ink that wrote it was still warm on his hands.