Chapter 1
Ashfall City always felt heavier at night.
Not in the way people joked about traffic or pollution, but in a way that pressed against the chest, like the air itself had learned how to lean. Even the streetlights seemed dimmer after sunset, their glow bending softly, warping at the edges like they were tired of standing straight.
I told myself it was just another late shift.
That was the lie I repeated as I locked up the café, the metal grate screeching down with a sound that echoed too loudly down the empty street. Midnight had already passed. The city had thinned out to the insomniacs, the patrol drones, and the kind of people who didn't belong to anyone.
People like me.
My phone buzzed with another alert before I could slip it into my pocket.
BLACKFALL SIGHTING — SOUTH QUARTER
Trending. Again.
I didn't open it. I never did. The images were always the same—blurred footage, warped angles, buildings bending inward like they were bowing to something unseen. A ripple in the air. A scream cut off too fast.
The villain with no face.
The city's gravity problem.
I pulled my jacket tighter and started walking.
My apartment was only six blocks away, but Ashfall had a way of stretching distance when it wanted to. The sidewalks were cracked, patched too many times to look intentional. Old posters peeled from brick walls—hero ads mostly. Aegis smiling down at everyone like a promise he couldn't keep.
You're safe, his eyes seemed to say.
No one I knew believed that anymore.
My footsteps sounded too loud, so I slowed them, counting breaths instead. I'd learned to do that after the third city-wide blackout last year. After the buildings downtown had bent just enough to make engineers swear under their breath.
After people started looking up at the sky more than they looked at each other.
The night felt... wrong.
Not dangerous. Not loud. Just attentive.
I stopped at the corner of Halcyon and Ninth, waiting for the walk signal that never seemed to come anymore. The intersection was empty. No cars. No voices. Even the hum of the city felt muted, like someone had turned the volume down without asking.
That was when I felt it.
Pressure.
Not hands. Not touch. Just... weight. Like the air had thickened around me, pressing against my shoulders, my spine, my lungs. My breath caught halfway in, sharp and surprised.
"What the—" I whispered.
The streetlight above me flickered.
For a second—just one—I thought the ground tilted.
My heart slammed hard enough to make my vision blur, and instinct took over. I stepped back, nearly stumbling off the curb, and the pressure vanished as suddenly as it had come.
I stood there, shaking, staring at nothing.
Get it together, Elara, I told myself. You're tired. That's all.
But the feeling lingered.
Like being watched after the watcher looks away.
The walk signal finally flashed green, and I crossed quickly, not daring to look around. I didn't stop until my apartment building came into view—a narrow concrete block wedged between a laundromat and a closed-down pharmacy.
Home.
Safe.
I punched in the code, slipped inside, and let the door shut behind me with a dull, solid thud. Only then did my shoulders drop.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly. Old carpet. Faded paint. Familiar in the way only things you can't afford to replace ever are.
I climbed the stairs slowly, my legs still unsteady, replaying the moment in my head.
The pressure.
The silence.
The way the city had seemed to pause.
It wasn't him, I thought quickly, the idea sending a sharp spike of fear through me. Don't be ridiculous.
Blackfall didn't haunt random corners. He didn't stalk baristas walking home after midnight. He was a disaster, not a shadow.
That's what the news said, anyway.
My apartment door clicked open, and I slipped inside, locking it behind me out of habit. The space was small but warm, lit by the amber glow of a single lamp I always left on. A couch, a narrow kitchen, a bedroom barely big enough for the bed.
Ordinary.
I kicked off my shoes and leaned back against the door, exhaling slowly.
Only then did I notice the ache in my chest hadn't gone away.
I crossed the room and set my bag down, catching my reflection in the dark window as I passed. Pale. Tired. Eyes too alert for someone who'd been awake since dawn.
Outside, the city stretched endlessly—lights scattered like fallen stars, buildings rising into the haze. Somewhere out there, heroes patrolled rooftops and villains rewrote physics.
And I existed in between.
I made tea, more for the ritual than the drink, and carried it to the window, resting my forehead briefly against the cool glass.
That was when I saw it.
Not movement.
Absence.
A patch of the skyline where the air looked... wrong. Like heat distortion, except colder. Heavier. The lights behind it bent inward, subtle but unmistakable.
My fingers tightened around the mug.
The news had never shown it like this. Up close. Quiet.
No sirens. No screaming.
Just a presence.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I scanned the rooftops, my breath shallow. The distortion lingered for a long second—two—then smoothed out, the city snapping back into place like nothing had happened.
I swallowed hard.
"Just stress," I whispered to the empty room.
But as I turned away from the window, a thought settled into my mind uninvited, cold and certain:
Something had noticed me tonight.
And whatever it was—
It hadn't felt angry.
Morning in Ashfall City never felt quiet—just restrained.
From my kitchen window, I watched the city wake up in small, impossible ways. A man across the street floated a foot above the sidewalk while scrolling through his phone, gravity optional for him. A woman waiting for the bus warmed her hands with a flicker of flame that danced harmlessly between her palms. Somewhere above, a courier streaked past the skyline in a blur of blue light.
Sixty percent of the world had powers.
It wasn't impressive anymore. It was infrastructure.
I wrapped my fingers around my mug and tried to ignore the dull echo of last night still sitting in my chest. Sleep had come in fragments—short, uneasy stretches broken by the sensation of pressure, of something close without ever touching.
The city news murmured softly from my tablet on the counter.
"—another suspected Blackfall anomaly late last night," the anchor said, smiling too calmly. "Authorities assure residents there is no cause for concern."
The footage behind her showed my neighborhood.
My street.
A timestamp blinked in the corner. 00:47.
My stomach tightened.
I hadn't told anyone about the pressure. About the way the air had bent, or the way the skyline had seemed to breathe. I hadn't posted. I hadn't called. I hadn't even searched his name.
And yet—
A knock sounded at my door.
Sharp. Polite. Final.
I froze.
The knock came again, firmer this time.
"Elara Finch?" a voice called. Warm. Professional. "Vanguard Authority."
My heart dropped somewhere behind my ribs.
I opened the door a cautious inch.
Two people stood in the hallway, both wearing the subtle gray insignia of the VA—a symbol most people found comforting. One man, one woman. Both smiling. Both with eyes that missed nothing.
"Ms. Finch," the woman said, holding up a badge I barely glanced at. "This won't take long."
That was never true.
They stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, the man's gaze flicking briefly around my apartment—layout, exits, windows—before returning to me.
"Routine follow-up," he said. "You were in the South Quarter last night?"
"Yes," I answered slowly. "I live here."
"Of course," the woman said gently. "And did you notice anything... unusual?"
My pulse ticked louder.
"No," I said.
They exchanged a glance that lasted a fraction of a second too long.
"Any sensations?" the man pressed. "Pressure changes. Light distortion. Dizziness."
I hesitated.
The woman smiled wider. "It's important to be honest. These things escalate when left unreported."
"I was tired," I said finally. "That's all."
Her smile softened, like she'd expected that answer. "Understandable. But we do need to verify something."
She raised a small device—sleek, silver, familiar.
A scanner.
"Registry confirmation," she said. "Just to rule things out."
"I don't have an anomaly," I replied. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "I never registered."
Her eyes flicked up. "You've never been scanned?"
"No."
That got their attention.
The man shifted his stance subtly, blocking the door without making it obvious.
"Ms. Finch," he said carefully, "unregistered individuals in proximity to Tier Four threats are flagged automatically."
"Flagged for what?" I asked.
"For protection," the woman said smoothly.
I looked between them. "I don't have powers."
She tilted her head. "Powers manifest late sometimes."
Silence stretched.
They weren't here because I was dangerous.
They were here because I was unknown.
The woman lowered the scanner. "We recommend a voluntary registration appointment. Just a baseline. Location monitoring, biometric data. It keeps everyone safe."
"Safe from who?" I asked.
Her answer came too quickly.
"From escalation."
They left a card on my table. My name printed neatly beneath the VA logo.
When the door finally shut behind them, the apartment felt smaller.
Watched.
I sank onto the couch, staring at the card until the letters blurred. Outside, the city carried on—powered, monitored, compliant.
For the first time in my life, I was glad I had nothing to give them.
Night fell early.
The city lights flickered on, one by one, and with them came the familiar hum—the low vibration that never quite left Ashfall. I stood at the window again, drawn there despite myself.
I didn't see him.
I felt him.
The pressure returned, stronger than before—but gentler. Like hands hovering just short of contact. The mug on the table trembled, lifting a breath off the surface before settling again.
I didn't scream.
I didn't run.
The air behind me warmed.
Not heat. Presence.
"You don't belong to them," a voice murmured—not aloud, but close enough that I felt it anyway.
My breath caught.
The city outside bent, just slightly, as if listening.
"I won't let them take you," the voice continued, calm and certain. "They already see you."
My fingers curled against the windowsill.
"Look at me," he said softly.
I didn't.
But I knew—absolutely, terrifyingly—that if I did, the world would never feel light again.
The pressure eased, retreating like a tide pulling back into the dark.
I was alone.
But I knew the truth now.
Blackfall wasn't watching the city.
He was watching me.