Zane Edwin ducked behind a dumpster, the stench of rotting trash and city grime hitting him like a punch. His heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough to drown out the distant hum of New York City at 2 a.m. Across the street, an armored truck sat under a flickering streetlight, its black metal gleaming like it knew something he didn't. This was it—the job that could change everything. Or ruin it.
"Zane, you good?" Tony's voice crackled through the earpiece, sharp and nervous. Tony was a skinny guy with a rap sheet longer than a bodega line, but he was the only one Zane trusted not to mess this up.
"Yeah," Zane whispered, tugging his black beanie lower. "Just wishing I was home eating Mom's meatloaf." He wasn't kidding. Clara, his foster mom, had practically begged him to skip this gig, her gray eyes heavy with worry. At sixty, she'd seen enough of his late-night "errands" to know they weren't just mechanic gigs. But the fridge was empty, rent was overdue, and there were kids in the neighborhood who needed jackets before winter hit. Zane couldn't say no.
"Focus, man," Tony hissed. "This truck's federal reserve gear. We pull this off, we're eating for months."
Zane's stomach churned. He wasn't some Robin Hood wannabe, but boosting cars and hitting corner stores kept him and Clara afloat. This job, though? Hijacking a federal truck? It felt like stepping off a cliff. He thought of Sophia, his best friend since they were ten, her laugh like sunlight cutting through his gray days. If he nailed this, maybe he could finally tell her how he felt. Maybe he could be more than the screw-up high school dropout who'd flunked out of engineering.
"Move in ten," Tony said. "Rico's got the EMP ready."
Zane nodded, even though no one could see him. He peeked at the truck again. Something about it bugged him. It was too quiet, too still, like it was waiting. He shook it off. Just nerves. He'd done dozens of jobs—nothing like this, sure, but he was quick, smart, and good with his hands. He'd be fine.
"Rico, you set?" Tony asked.
"EMP's hot," Rico's gravelly voice answered. "Thirty seconds, we fry that truck's systems."
Zane's fingers twitched, ready to sprint. He pictured Clara's warm kitchen, Sophia's teasing grin. He could do this. He had to.
Then it hit, a low hum, like a swarm of bees waking up. The truck's back door rattled, and a faint blue glow leaked through the cracks. Zane's skin prickled, hairs standing on end. "Tony, you see that?"
"What?" Tony snapped. "See what?"
Before Zane could answer, sirens screamed. Red and blue lights flashed around the corner, tires screeching. Cops—no, worse. FBI. Black SUVs roared into the street, boxing the truck in.
"Abort!" Tony yelled. "Scatter!"
Rico cursed through the earpiece. Zane's legs locked. He should've bolted, but that blue glow held him like a magnet. The truck's door shook harder, the hum turning into a pulse that buzzed in his bones. What the hell was in there?
"Zane, move!" Tony's voice was desperate now.
But Zane couldn't. The glow flared, bright as a supernova, and the truck's door burst open. A metal crate slid out, cracking on the pavement. Something rolled free—a stone, no bigger than a baseball, pulsing with blue light. It wasn't a stone, though. It was… alive. Zane's head throbbed, like the thing was whispering to him.
"Freeze!" an FBI agent shouted, gun drawn. Flashlights cut through the dark, pinning Zane in their beams.
He stumbled back, heart racing. The stone-thing rolled closer, and the air around it crackled. Zane's hand moved before he could think, reaching for it. His fingers brushed its surface—smooth, warm, buzzing like a live wire.
The world exploded.
Light swallowed everything. A shockwave slammed Zane into the dumpster, pain ripping through him. Cars flipped, windows shattered, and screams filled the air. The last thing he saw was that blue glow, burning into his eyes. Then darkness.
Zane didn't know how long he was out. Seconds? Hours? His body felt like it had been run over by a semi, but he was alive. Sort of. He couldn't move, couldn't open his eyes, but his mind was awake, trapped in a fog. Voices echoed, faint and garbled, like a radio stuck between stations.
"…Synthorium… activated…"
"…Mindwell Field… compatible…"
"…Vault… stabilize him…"
The words meant nothing, but they stuck in Zane's head, heavy and sharp. Synthorium? Vault? His thoughts drifted to Clara, probably pacing their tiny apartment, waiting for him to come home. To Sophia, who'd kill him for being so reckless. Guilt twisted in his gut. He'd promised them he'd be careful.
Something shifted inside him, like a spark catching fire. His chest burned, and a voice—not his own—whispered in his mind. Awaken. It wasn't loud, but it hit like a command, shaking him to his core. His fingers twitched, then his arms. Light seeped through his eyelids, faint at first, then blinding.
He gasped, eyes snapping open. He was lying on a metal table, surrounded by sleek walls that looked like something out of a sci-fi flick. Machines hummed, screens glowed with data, and a sharp, clean smell filled the air. This wasn't a hospital. This was… something else.
A man stood over him, tall and lean, with silver hair and eyes that seemed to see right through him. He wore a dark suit, crisp and expensive, like he'd stepped out of a boardroom. "Welcome back, Zane Edwin," he said, voice smooth as glass. "You're in The Vault. And you're not quite human anymore."
Zane's mouth went dry. He tried to sit up, but straps held him down. His head spun, the man's words sinking in. Not human? What was this guy on? He glanced at his hands, expecting scars or burns from the explosion. Instead, faint blue lines pulsed under his skin, like circuits. His heart skipped.
"Who… who are you?" Zane croaked. "What happened to me?"
The man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm Mr. Corin. As for what happened…" He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "You touched the Synthorium. It chose you. And now, you're something extraordinary."
Zane's mind raced. The stone. The glow. The explosion. None of it made sense. He thought of Clara, Sophia, the life he'd been scraping by for. "I don't want this," he said, voice shaking. "Whatever this is, take it back."
Mr. Corin's smile faded. "It's not that simple. The Synthorium bonded with you because of who you are. Or rather, what you are." He stepped back, gesturing to the room. "You're in a new world now, Zane. One with powers, dangers, and secrets you can't imagine."
Zane's chest tightened. Powers? Secrets? He wasn't a hero. He was just a guy trying to survive. But those blue lines in his skin, the voice in his head—they said otherwise. He tugged at the straps, panic rising. "Let me out. I need to go home."
"Home isn't safe anymore," Mr. Corin said. "Not for you. Not for them." He turned to a screen, where a news report played silently—images of the wrecked street, FBI agents, and a headline: EXPLOSION KILLS FOUR, SUSPECT MISSING.
Zane's blood ran cold. Missing? Did Clara think he was dead? Sophia? He had to get to them, explain, fix this. But the blue lines in his skin pulsed brighter, and that voice whispered again. Awaken.
Before he could argue, an alarm blared. Red lights flashed, and a woman's voice, calm but urgent, came over a speaker. "Intruder alert. Synthorium signature detected. All units to sector seven."
Mr. Corin's face darkened. "They've already found you." He looked at Zane, eyes narrowing. "Your old life is gone, Zane. The question is… what will you do with your new one?"
Zane's heart pounded as the straps released, letting him sit up. The room shook, a distant boom rattling the walls. Someone or something was coming for him. And deep inside, the Synthorium hummed, ready to answer.