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Chapter 2: The Weight of Being Nothing
The city did not notice him.
It never did.
People moved in predictable lines—heads down, eyes glazed, lives folded neatly into routines they called freedom. Screens flickered. Trains screamed. The world functioned perfectly, unaware of how fragile its logic truly was.
Zero stood still among them.
He was fifteen.
Or rather—he appeared to be.
Age, to him, was a courtesy he allowed reality to believe in.
He watched a man trip and curse fate. Watched a child laugh without knowing why. Watched a woman stare at her phone as if it contained meaning. Each moment unfolded exactly as it was supposed to.
And that was the problem.
Zero could see the seams.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
He saw probabilities stacking like transparent sheets. He saw causality hesitate before committing. He saw laws of physics negotiate with something older than themselves.
The world was not natural.
It was maintained.
"Still holding," Zero murmured.
No one heard him.
They never did—unless he allowed it.
He could stop the train with a thought. Rewrite gravity with a suggestion. Erase the concept of distance so that every place became the same place. He could do all of it without effort.
That was precisely why he did none of it.
Omnipotence, he had learned, was loud by default.
Silence took discipline.
Zero began walking.
Each step was deliberate, measured—not because he needed to be careful, but because the world needed him to pretend he did. Asphalt cracked underfoot, then repaired itself instantly, embarrassed by the mistake.
Reality corrected itself around him.
Always around him.
He stopped at the edge of the platform, watching another train arrive. Another cycle. Another repetition. Humanity repeating motions like a ritual whose god had already left.
Once, long ago—before time learned how to count—Zero had tried to help.
He had fixed things.
Wars ended too quickly. Diseases vanished overnight. Death lost its authority. Meaning collapsed under the weight of perfection.
Humans did not thank him.
They broke.
So Zero chose something harder than saving the world.
He chose to let it struggle.
"To exist," he whispered, "is to endure imperfection."
The train doors opened.
This time, Zero did not step inside.
Instead, he turned away—toward a narrow street where light bent strangely, where causality slowed as if reluctant to follow.
Something was waiting there.
Not a threat.
Not yet.
But a question.
And questions, Zero knew, were far more dangerous than enemies.
He smiled faintly.
The world continued breathing, unaware that its greatest mercy was also its greatest restraint.
Omnipotence remained silent.
For now.
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