Greyfog City at four in the afternoon looked like it was rotting in slow motion. The sun scraped through a ceiling of metal dust and leftover supernatural residue. By the time it hit the cracked pavement, it was orange-brown, thick like rust smeared on wet concrete. Rainwater carried streaks of rainbow oil from the residue; pedestrians wore masks, but the faint tang of chemical smoke still clung to lungs.
Evan Cross sat on a splintered wooden bench. Years of grime and dust had settled into the cracks. He held a cheap sandwich, the plastic wrapper crinkling sharply under his fingers. He zipped his faded grey hoodie to his chin. Narrow world. No one in it but him.
Somewhere a hover-horn droned, muffled, as if underwater. The world shrank to the taste of bread, plastic, and the faint aluminum of rainwater. Evan chewed methodically, counting each second between bites.
A few dozen meters ahead, Santorini Avenue was alive. Crowds pressed close around a temporary white-marble platform. A young Tier-3 "Projection-type" Esper stood there, shoulders back, chest out, every motion carved by worship.
His right hand sliced through the air.
Zzzt—crack!
Electricity snapped. Engines, horns, shouts, chatter—all swallowed. Blue arcs coiled between his fingers like snakes made of light. He swung his arm; the arcs coalesced into a thunderbird. Plasma feathers shimmered. Sparks caught rust-colored sunlight and bounced across the crowd's faces.
The crowd gasped. A mother pressed her boy tight. "See that, son? That's power. Hit that level, and you won't rot in these gutters."
The boy reached out. Dirty fingers brushed glowing residue.
Evan didn't move. He took another bite. Crunch of cardboard bread. Wilted lettuce. The hover-horn's hum, the chatter, the drizzle of rain—all irrelevant. The radius was quiet.
The thunderbird twisted midair. Sparks flickered. One wing dissolved into static.
The performer froze. Veins bulged. Hands clawed at empty air. Nothing worked.
The street shifted. Evan didn't glance up. A black limousine slid to a stop at the red light. Armored. High-tier Enhancement-class passenger. Presence heavy, pressing against the air, bending it around him.
The thunderbird convulsed again. Plasma scattered. Then vanished. Acrid ozone remained.
Three seconds.
Smartphones blinked. Live-stream comments exploded: "??? WTF", "System overload?".
The crowd stared. Whispered confusion. The performer collapsed. Miracle hadn't broken—it had never existed here. Evan's radius claimed it before it could touch him.
He wiped crumbs. Looked around. No one knew. Only Evan felt it: five meters—about the length of a rusted city bus—where miracles came to die. Fire couldn't burn. Electricity couldn't jump. Minds couldn't reach him. Physics alone ruled. Cold. Real.
He stood. Crumpled the sandwich wrapper. Tossed it. Pulled his hood lower. Slipped into an alley where shadows didn't bend to light.
Posters peeled from damp walls. Heroes of Awakening, faces airbrushed bright. Slogans screamed neon: Power is Truth. Evan ignored them.
At the alley's end, a rusted iron door. Knock, knock-knock, knock. Precise, deliberate.
A slit opened. Bloodshot yellow eyes. "Evan? Three minutes late." Gravelly. Dry. "Three minutes is enough for a Phantom-type psycho to gut you and use your shoelaces as dental floss."
"He hasn't done it yet," Evan said flat. Stepped inside. Smell hit him: mold, cigarettes, rot. "Where's the job?"
The Rat slid a greasy tablet across a scarred wooden table. "Old water plant. West District. Nightmare. Ghost-type, booster-junkie, calls himself 'Nightmare.' Tier-3. Lost control. Two Tier-2 Mental Defense went in—one jumped. Other's in the hospital chewing fingers." He grinned. Yellow teeth. "Bring the head before the drugs fry him. Reward? Sandwiches for a year. Extra ham. Double cheese."
Evan studied the grainy image. Tier-3 Phantom. God to ordinary men. To Evan? A fragile piece of meat. Five meters of radius and he was useless.
"Deal."
He left. Neon rain, buzzing grid. Asphalt slick. Puddles fractured reflections. Vibration from underground generators slid past him. He didn't notice. Didn't care. Objective first.
The old water plant loomed. Chimneys like broken fingers scraping dead sky. No lights. Chemical stench thick. Rot pooled in drainage.
Evan's hand rested on the blade. Manganese steel. Stone-age joke to an Esper. Real to him.
He skirted the street edges. Flickering lights. Broken glass. Reflections fractured in puddles.
Shadows shifted. Figures lurked. Scavengers, bottom-feeders. Approaching the invisible circle.
Panic struck them. Hands trembled. Knees buckled. Hollow emptiness gnawed. They retreated, swallowed by deeper shadows. Evan didn't care. Only the objective mattered.
Rusty iron stairs. Climbed silently. Avoided patches that might groan. Ladder trembled. Wind whistled through empty windows.
Heavy lead-lined door. Opened. Darkness rushed. Thick. Viscous.
A leaky pipe dripped onto a fractured bulb, sizzling. Evan stepped within five meters—sizzle died mid-hiss.
A voice: hollow, ethereal. "Welcome to my dream."
Evan stepped in. Expression blank. Five meters. Done.
Air collapsed. Pressure vanished. Darkness didn't fight.
He advanced. Smell of chemicals, rot. Pipes leaked. Water hissed. Broken lights flickered weakly. Shadows potential targets. Puddles mirrored them. Steps silent.
Rounded a corner. Faint glow. Nightmare. Tier-3 Phantom, tweaked on boosters. Eyes wild. Hands twitching.
Evan moved closer. Blade ready. Step after step. Phantom twitched, energy leaking. Arcs jumping uncontrollably. Miracles to the crowd. Physics to Evan.
Reached him. Cut angles precise. Muscle memory, training, instinct. One strike. Controlled. Clean.
Nothing glamorous. No godhood. No miracle. Just Evan. The world. And what he could control.
Phantom neutralized. Floor slick with pooled boosters. Silent. No one would understand.
Evan wiped blade. Checked surroundings. Five meters. Everything still empty. Everything still his.
He stepped back into the alley. Rain streaked neon. Concrete slick. Rusted posters. The city pulsed around him. Lives carried on, unaware.
He didn't need miracles; he was the full stop at the end of every incantation.