Chapter 1: Red Lightning
Steel doesn't feel heavy anymore.
Not when you stop thinking about it.
I stand on the highest scaffold of a half-built tower in Lower Vexen, rain soaking through my work jacket, three girders suspended in the air, as if they're obeying gravity incorrectly. Telekinesis hums in my skull, a low pressure behind my eyes that never really goes away. Down below, there aren't cranes—just people like me.
Cheaper that way.
Replaceable.
"Shift it two feet left!" someone yells.
I rotate the beam slowly. Precision matters. If I slip, someone dies. If I strain too hard, I might.
Enhancement users haul concrete on the ground level. They can tell when someone's body is failing. They feel it in the way others move, in the tremors, in the way breathing changes.
One of them climbs up toward me.
Marcus.
He looks thinner than last week. His hands shake when he grips the railing. There's dried blood beneath his nose he didn't bother wiping it clean.
He gives me a crooked smile. "Glad to see you before your break."
"You shouldn't even be here," I tell him.
He shrugs like it doesn't matter. "Don't have much time left anyway."
I freeze for half a second. The girder trembles in midair.
"What are you talking about?"
"The enhancement users said so," he replies, nodding downward. "Said I've been overworking myself too long. They can feel it. Something about internal tearing. Micro-failures stacking up."
Rain runs down his face. It mixes with fresh red.
"Then stop," I say.
"And do what?" he asks quietly. "Sit around and wait for it to happen?"
I don't answer.
Because he's not wrong.
The siren signals break. The beam locks into place with a hollow clang. My head pulses harder now, vision fuzzing at the edges.
Marcus grips my shoulder before heading down. His hand feels weaker than it used to.
"Don't end up like me," he mutters.
I watch him descend the scaffolding slowly, as every step costs him something.
The sky over Vexen looks bruised, swollen with thunder.
My name is Alec. I lived a great life in Vexen, but everything spiraled into decay for everyone around me, myself included. Some of my friends became ghosts, or were cursed with a constant stream of tragedy—overdoses of power, addictions blooming like poisonous flowers.
I'm blind to the bigger picture of this world, but I know the origin of this curse came from some self-proclaimed "god" who cursed everyone. No one discusses it out loud unless they want to be lectured to death by those who worship that—well, entity, since no one has actually seen him or her, the one who gifted us these powers. But I call it a curse; a cancer of the soul.
The maddening part is that it kills people, yet many see it as a gift. We weren't meant to wield these powers; they tear at our bodies, bleed into our minds. Yet, society encourages us to use them, like addicts chasing a high that will eventually kill them.
Why am I even scribbling this in a journal? Owen said it'd make me feel better, but I don't know—isn't it basically a diary? A confession to the void?
The sky above Vexen was a bruise, cracking with thunder as acidic rain began to fall. Then came the flash a searing, purple lightning that painted the alley in an eerie glow.
A girl landed in the alley like a wraith, knees colliding with the concrete. She spotted one of the gang members, and he barely registered her presence before her hand erupted in a violet inferno and blasted him off his feet. The others stirred, one foolishly attempting to attack—a fatal error. He hurled a fireball; she dodged, a phantom in the rain, and unleashed a lightning strike that electrocuted him with bone-jarring force. The rest scattered, one already fallen, another desperately trying to escape, but she was a predator, and they were prey. A bolt of purple lightning materialized in front of the fleeing gang member, an impossible barrier, and before he could scream, she was upon him. A brutal kick sent him sprawling onto the rain-slicked ground.
She didn't gasp for air; there was no exhilaration in her stance. She stood there, eyes glowing faintly, a silent, predatory stare, a trickle of blood from her nose—the price of her power. The use of her abilities was routine. So was the act of extinguishing life.
She gazed down at the one still clinging to consciousness, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. She yanked him up by the collar and slammed him against the wall, the impact echoing in the narrow space.
"Where's Ember?" Her voice was a low growl, laced with venom.
He spat blood, a grotesque grin spreading across his face. "Well, Mira, still hunting her, huh? Tell you what, let me go, and I'll give you names—names of people who can lead you to her!"
Mira conjured a spark of electricity between her fingers, a buzzing, deadly promise, and pressed them close to his neck. A single jolt from Mira was enough to send him convulsing, his body momentarily seized, then limp.
"I don't want names of those connected to her; I want locations!" Her voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the rain and fear.
He rolled his eyes, a sign of resignation. "Yeesh, she's holed up at the South Vexen old scrapyard now. Just leave me be…"
She released him, a sliver of mercy in her actions. Originally, she intended to deliver him to oblivion, but decided against it. She only killed when necessary, but her emotions were a volatile storm that often clouded her judgment.
Ten years ago, in the same kind of alley—claustrophobic, shadowed, thick with the metallic scent of decay, a sepulcher of silence—she was here too. The only difference was that she was smaller, powerless, a lamb among wolves. Her parents, Miranda and David, fought like cornered lions, their love a fierce, defiant shield. Lightning illuminated the scene—a harsh, white lightning that seemed to mock their struggle. The three men they fought possessed abilities that defied comprehension; it was as if they were fueled by something not of this world.
The fire devoured her mother first, a searing inferno that left nothing but charred remains. Then, her father fell, his body collapsing beside her mother's, burnt beyond recognition. Their screams were lost to the wind, their faces forever etched in her memory.
Mira stared in disbelief, her mind reeling, but instinctively, she raised a hand and summoned a single bolt of lightning. It was a weak, flickering red, barely a spark, but it caught the gang off guard for a fraction of a second. They never expected a child to manifest abilities, especially not at that age—kids usually don't control their abilities at that age—but it bought her enough time to run. That was all it did; it did nothing for her parents, nothing to avenge their demise.
"Hey... Alec"
"Mira, nobody told you to do what you did. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? And you're in a ton of pain—you keep leeching from your power! How many times do I have to pump you with painkillers and mop up your nosebleeds?" Alec's voice was laced with annoyance, his eyes glued to the datapad in his hands, without looking up.
Mira stood in his cramped apartment, her face pale, nose bleeding incessantly, her body trembling with exhaustion.
"I don't care," she said, her voice raspy.
He sighed, a sound filled with resignation. "You'll die before you even get close to that gang leader. Stop overusing your power—"
"I said I don't care! And her name is Ember. She orchestrated this, and I'll keep chipping away at her empire until I find her. She ordered the attack and destroyed my family, you already know this." Her voice was ragged.
Alec's eyes widened slightly, glowing faintly brown with concern. He used his powers to summon a tissue, making it float toward him, and dabbed at Mira's nose, but the effort caused a sympathetic nosebleed for him.
"Ember's not alone anymore. She's got muscle. Real muscle. Back then, all she hired was street trash, run-of-the-mill thugs. We both know this," he said.
Mira glared at him, her eyes burning with a dangerous intensity.
"So? I can warp things just like them. I'm strong too."
Alec looked exhausted, his patience wearing thin. "Yeah, you also have a death wish fueled by trauma. Let's be realistic— there's only one of you, and many of them. I suggest we reach out to our friends—group up. You can't do this alone." They stared at each other, a battle of wills waged in silence. Then, she turned away, her jaw set.
Later that night, they met under the freeway with their friend Owen. Irene sat on the ground, manipulating fire to start a campfire, a small beacon of warmth in the encroaching darkness. Irene leaned against the concrete wall, arms crossed, a constant smirk playing on her face. Her fire flared, big, bright, reckless, as if daring the city to notice. She couldn't dodge an attack to save her life; everyone knew this. Still, she was found somewhat unlikable, a flame that danced too close to the shadows.
Mira cut through the silence with a voice of grit, "The scrapyard! We hit it tomorrow morning."
"You sure? That's deep gang territory," Owen asked, his brow furrowed.
"Nice to hear confirmation on the intel I was given," Mira replied, her voice laced with sarcasm.
Irene idly conjured a ball of fire in her palm, swirling it with a careless flick of her wrist. "Been wanting a fight."
"This isn't a brawl for fun or a game if you think it is!" Mira snapped, her eyes flashing. "We go in, find Ember, end her, and burn the entire Phoenix gang to ashes."
Alec stood in the shadows, quiet, his presence a silent question mark.
"I saw Ember once," he finally said, his voice low and hesitant. "She's hella messed up. Power is eating her from the inside—problems breathing, bloodshot eyes—and she kept using her abilities AND the drug. She's addicted; her gang has tons of supply."
"She dies, either at our hands or from her own power," Mira said, her voice devoid of emotion.
Everyone stared at each other, the unspoken fears hanging heavy in the air. Alec added, "Well, if we're gonna do this, we should at least try to disguise ourselves so they can't ID us so easily. If they do, and they catch us on the streets, it's… well… over."
Mira rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin. "Wow, really? Thanks for the info, Captain Obvious. It's pretty clear if you didn't know."
Alec sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Anyways, we could use more help. What about Jessica—that girl you know? Would she be interested?"
Mira thought, her expression hardening. "No! Absolutely not. Let's not drag her into this mess; this has a high possibility of being the death of us! But I do recommend we all train—without painkillers. We need pain tolerance. If we get better control or new skills, we'll be better, and some of you definitely need training," she said, her gaze sweeping over the group, lingering on Irene.
Everyone instinctively looked at Irene.
"Why are you guys looking at me?" Irene snapped.
"Let's just start training," Mira said firmly, cutting off any further argument.
"Mira, I just want you to know—when it's time to bail, please do. I don't want any of us dying. I don't want you to die, and knowing y—"
Mira interrupted Alec, her voice flat.
"I won't, I promise."
She lied. They all knew it. Mira never bailed, not since the first time she froze in an alley, surrounded by corpses, her hair still sparking, hands shaking with adrenaline and guilt.
They stayed under the bridge for a while, the darkness a comforting shroud. Irene danced with the fire, coaxing it into life, Owen paced like a caged animal, and Alec watched Mira's silhouette flicker in the shifting shadows. Everyone kept their hands busy; nerves translated into movement, because if you stopped, memories came back sharp as knives, lacerating the soul. Alec saw Mira's distant stare, saw the way her hands trembled when she thought nobody was watching, and he had started to wonder if this was just another way for them to bleed out. A controlled suicide. Owen started tossing rocks at the freeway pillars, launching each one off with a precise aim. He made a game of it, counting off in his head, a futile attempt to silence the deafening thoughts. Rumor was, his dad used to be an officer and went around abusing innocents in the job which affected Owen's reputation in Vexen, rumors lived and continued to spread for years.
Overhead, the city's layers pulsed with a life of its own. From the viaduct, you could see the ragged lights of upper Vexen—neon, advertisements, glossy towers full of people who wore dampers to keep their powers at bay, shielding themselves from the harsh reality of the cursed. Up there, most acted like nothing strange had ever happened, as if the world hadn't been rewired a generation ago by some cosmic tantrum. Down here, under the overpasses and in the alleys, the shadows held a different truth, a different kind of pain.
Under the overpass, time stops meaning anything.
We train.
Again.
And again.
Irene goes first, because she always does. Her fire bursts outward in wide arcs, bright orange and loud, licking across the wet concrete. It's messy, overextended, and burning more space than it needs to. Every time she throws it, steam explodes up around her and she laughs through it, like the heat is a challenge daring her to blink.
Owen's fire follows.
His flames stay closer to his body, tighter, hotter. Where Irene floods the space, Owen drills through it. He practices short bursts—controlled jets, sudden flares, rapid extinguish-and-reignite cycles. The color shifts at the core when he concentrates, edging toward white as he compresses it. Each blast leaves scorch marks that don't fade with the rain.
I watch. Measure.
Then I step in.
Lightning hums beneath my skin before I even move. Not loud—dense. The air around my hands darkens, rain shivering as it falls. When I release it, the purple bolt snaps forward and punches into a steel sheet we propped against a pillar. The impact doesn't spread. It drives. The metal buckles inward like it's been crushed.
Pain flares behind my eyes immediately.
I breathe through it.
Again.
Shorter discharge this time. Cleaner. The purple thins slightly, less saturated, but steadier. The strike lands exactly where I aim.
Control over spectacle.
Alec stands off to the side, jaw tight, hands raised.
He struggles.
I can see it in the way his fingers twitch before anything happens. He focuses hard, too hard. A chunk of broken asphalt trembles, lifts a few inches, then drops with a dull crack.
He exhales sharply and tries again.
This time it rises higher—unsteady, wobbling like it might tear free or fall at any second. Sweat beads along his forehead despite the cold. Blood creeps from his nose.
"Don't force it," I tell him. "Guide it."
He clenches his jaw, nods.
The chunk steadies.
Progress.
Irene sends a quick flare at him without warning.
The asphalt jerks sideways midair, barely intercepting the fire before it hits him. The timing is off, but it works.
Alec stumbles back, breathing hard.
Owen grins. "Hey, that was almost impressive."
"Almost," Alec mutters.
We rotate.
Fire at lightning.
Lightning at debris.
Debris was redirected into the fire.
The underpass fills with steam and ozone, the smell sharp and metallic.
I practice distance jumps, snapping from point to point in short bursts of purple light. Each jump lands harder than the last. My vision flickers at the edges if I chain them too fast.
Steam rises from the concrete where we trained. The scorch marks will stay. They always do.
Alec sits beside me, flexing his fingers slowly like he's checking for fractures. He doesn't talk about work much, but when he does, it sounds less like construction and more like endurance testing.
I look out at the half-finished tower in the distance.
I've never seen a crane in real life.
Only in history books.
Old photographs. Massive yellow structures towering over cities. Mechanical arms lift steel beams into place. My history teacher once showed us a documentary clip of entire skylines built with nothing but machinery and operators in hard hats.
It looked… slow.
Complicated.
Expensive.
"They used to use machines for everything," I say.
Alec glances at me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Cranes. Hydraulic lifts. Industrial welders. Massive assembly rigs."
Owen lets out a quiet laugh. "Sounds inefficient."
"It probably was," Irene says. "Grandma says back in her day, they announced many things being discontinued. Many priorities change overnight. Why fund heavy equipment when people with powers could just… do it?"
None of us was alive when these powers first manifested. We just inherited the aftermath.
No one ever officially declared machines obsolete. We just stopped seeing them.
Construction sites don't have equipment yards.
They have people.
Telekinetics suspend steel in midair. Fire users seal structural joints. Enhancement users heal people, checking on their well-being. Everything is balanced because every power has a purpose holding everything together.
I don't know if cranes are discontinued.
I just know I've never seen one outside of a textbook.
Maybe they still exist somewhere. Maybe Upper Vexen has storage facilities full of old machinery. Maybe not.
Irene practices shaping instead of spreading forcing her flames into narrower forms. She fails more than she succeeds, but when she gets it right, the fire cuts instead of washes.
Owen works on endurance, keeping a steady burn without letting it spike. His control is better, but his hands shake slightly when he finally lets the flames die.
Alec manages two objects at once near the end.
Only for a second.
It nearly drops him to one knee.
We stop when the rain fades to mist and the ground around us looks like a war zone.
No one cheers.
No one jokes.
We just stand there, breathing hard, steam rising off our skin.
Training isn't making us safer.
It's sharpening the edge.
And I don't know which side of it we're standing on anymore
We don't jump straight into more training.
For once, nobody pushes it.
We sit on the low concrete barrier under the overpass, steam still lifting off scorched ground. My lightning has faded back under my skin, leaving that hollow, buzzing ache behind my eyes. Alec presses a cloth to his nose. Owen leans back on his hands, staring up at the freeway like it might answer him if he keeps looking.
Irene breaks the silence first.
"Man," she says, stretching her arms, "my grandma would lose it if she saw this place."
I snort quietly.
"She doesn't strike me as the 'under-the-bridge vigilante training' type."
"That's because she's not," Irene replies. "Everyone else in my family is strict as hell. Schedules. Rules. Church. 'Fire is dangerous, Irene.'" She mimics them with a dramatic eye roll. "But Grandma? She just tells me to eat more and not burn the curtains."
Alec exhales through his nose. "Sounds… nice."
"It is," Irene says. "She knows what I can do. Doesn't freak out. Just says, 'If you're gonna use it, don't be stupid.' Which I mostly follow."
"Mostly," Owen repeats, amused.
Irene grins. "Hey, I'm alive."
Owen goes quiet after that.
He always does when things turn normal.
I glance at him. "What about you?"
He shrugs. "Not much to say."
I don't let it go. "You always say that."
He picks at a crack in the concrete with his shoe. "Dad's gone. Has been for a while. Mom wants nothing to do with me. We don't really talk. Easier that way."
"Easier doesn't mean better," Alec says softly.
Owen gives him a sideways look. "Didn't say it did."
There's no anger in it. Just a fact.
"I used to think fire made things simpler," Owen continues after a moment. "Burn the problem. It's gone. But it's not like that. Stuff just… stays. Even when you try to incinerate it."
No one jokes this time.
Irene nudges him lightly with her foot. "You're still stuck with us, at least."
"Lucky me," he says, but there's a hint of warmth there.
Alec shifts beside me. Our shoulders touch. We live in the same apartment—thin walls, bad plumbing, too many memories crammed into one place.
"It's weird," he says. "Living together. Feels temporary. Like the floor could drop out any day."
"You hate it?" Irene asks.
"No," he replies quickly. "I hate that it feels… it could be ruined easily."
I know what he means.
Our place smells like old coffee and ozone. We argue about dishes. Owen leaves scorch marks on the stove, which he never cleans properly. Alec pretends he's fine until his hands shake too much to hide it, but not only is it kinda small it's low-key cramped as hell.
But it's still a place we come back to.
"It's better than being alone," I say.
They all look at me.
I don't usually say things like that.
Irene smiles first. "Damn, Mira. Didn't think you had that in you."
"Don't get used to it."
Owen laughs quietly.
Alec relaxes a fraction, like he's been holding his breath without realizing it.
Above us, traffic hums on, unaware. People heading home to safe places, pretending the world didn't change.
We sit there a little longer, four lives tangled together by coincidence, power, and damage.