The train hummed softly as it carved through the city's veins, metal wheels kissing the tracks in a rhythm so mundane that most commuters had already tuned it out. Phones glowed in the dim light; headphones muted the world entirely. People leaned against poles, swaying with the motion, murmuring half-hearted greetings to strangers they would never meet again.
And then there was him.
Adam Takahashi. Black eyes that seemed to absorb the dim lights reflected nothing of the world outside the window. His jaw was sharp enough to cast a shadow, angles perfect as though carved by some meticulous sculptor. Every inch of his body spoke of careful training, though he made no effort to stand out. Sculpted arms rested on the knees of his uniformed legs; he leaned lazily against the window, a faint smirk playing on his lips as the train lurched around the curve.
The surrounding crowd had no idea what they were in the presence of. To them, he was just another commuter, perhaps a little handsome, perhaps a little aloof. But beneath that nonchalance was a mind operating far faster than the human eye could perceive.
He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling. Not the smell of the train itself—that he had memorized long ago—but the subtler details: the vibration of the tracks beneath his shoes, the uneven pulse of the car's metal under stress, the rhythm of every passenger's heartbeat as it translated into micro-movements through their posture.
A boy with a backpack shifted to lean on the opposite wall, a little too fast. A woman adjusted her child's grip on her sleeve. A man in a business suit tapped a foot impatiently against the floor, oblivious to the slight tremor beneath him. All minor, all insignificant… unless one misstep triggered a cascade.
Predictable.
He let a lazy hand drop, brushing against the strap of his bag. Not a gesture of readiness—it was habit. The calculations had already begun, running in milliseconds: if the boy leaned forward, the woman would stumble, creating a domino effect… yes, yes, and yes. All resolved before it could happen.
He smirked faintly to himself. "Boring," he muttered under his breath, not that anyone could hear.
The lights flickered.
The first flicker was small, almost negligible. The fluorescent hum dimmed for a heartbeat before returning. Passengers barely noticed. Some muttered complaints about the aging train's electrical wiring, shrugging it off.
But then it happened again. And again. Faster this time. The entire car seemed to shiver, as though the tracks themselves were trembling under some unseen hand.
A hush fell. Eyes darted nervously to the ceiling lights. A subtle panic began to ripple, quiet at first, like the tremors of an approaching storm.
And then—darkness.
A collective gasp. A scream. Someone's bag toppled; a phone clattered to the floor.
He remained still.
Not again…
Every movement, every voice, every vibration under his feet—his senses mapped it all with mechanical precision. Thousands of potential outcomes spiraled through his mind, collapsing instantly into the one path that ensured safety for all nearby. To anyone else, he appeared calm, almost unnervingly so. To the reader, the truth was clear: he had already calculated everything before the first scream even escaped the crowd.
A boy tripped over a fallen suitcase. Reflexively, he adjusted his posture, and a subtle shift of his elbow caused the boy to stumble slightly to the right, narrowly avoiding the woman's clumsy step. A woman's scarf snagged on the overhead rail; he leaned slightly, just enough to alter the train's sway beneath them. Invisible corrections, imperceptible nudges.
Phantom Archive…
Not yet named, not yet recognized. Just instinct.
The darkness stretched. A soft metallic screech echoed through the tunnel, making some passengers freeze mid-step. Others stumbled blindly, hands searching for poles, walls, or strangers to hold onto. Panic grew exponentially, each movement triggering a chain reaction. Adam didn't flinch. Every twitch, every step, every breath was logged, analyzed, and stored in his mind.
His internal simulation ran continuously: If she turns her head now, she'll collide with the man behind her… If he panics, he'll step onto the bag… No, correct by nudging the backpack slightly…
And he did. Not overtly—just a shift of weight, the smallest adjustment of an elbow, an almost imperceptible tap of a shoe.
The humans around him didn't know why they stumbled slightly left or right without hitting one another. They only felt relief, vaguely aware they'd avoided disaster by some miracle.
He smirked again, amused.
They'll never know.
A shiver ran down his spine—a whisper of sensation that didn't belong. It wasn't the vibration of the train or the panic of the passengers. Something else, cold, subtle, almost imperceptible.
Deja vu.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The metallic scent of the train, the flicker of the lights before the blackout, the screeching vibrations—he had experienced this. Not exactly, but close enough to recognize a pattern.
Something was coming. Something outside normal reality.
He leaned back slightly, observing, cataloging, predicting. The shadows of passengers stretched and twisted unnaturally in the darkness. Brief flashes of light in the corner of his vision weren't reflections—they were shapes. Forms. Silhouettes that shouldn't exist.
A wolf-like shadow crouched in the distance. Faint, almost imperceptible feathers brushed the ceiling as if a harpy had passed above. Strange sigils flickered across walls—Egyptian, Mayan, Norse, Kanji. Only he noticed. Only he understood.
The train jolted violently. People screamed, grabbed poles, collided. Adam moved just enough to avoid collisions, his calm unnerving to anyone watching.
Boring, but predictable.
He inhaled. The chaos became a game board in his mind. Each passenger a piece, each vibration a signal, each scream a possible future. He could predict and manipulate outcomes that no one else could perceive. Every movement he made subtly altered the environment, nudging the future into a safer sequence, almost invisible to the panicking humans.
And the system noticed.
A faint ping echoed in his mind. Not audible, not visible—just a subtle awareness, a recognition from something beyond this reality. He didn't understand it yet, but the latent ability had been observed. Phantom Archive wasn't just instinct anymore. The world had begun to register it.