Marcel Hugo liked to think of himself as a simple man.
Not simple in the dumb sense, of course. He had a decent GPA for a second-year college student, he managed his bills (most of the time), and he wasn't in crippling debt yet, which in 2025 was practically a superpower. But "simple" in that his ambitions didn't stretch into the stars the way most people's did these days.
Other kids dreamed of Awakening, of becoming Rangers, of wielding fire or lightning or controlling the wind. They wanted Guild contracts, sponsorship deals, flashy armor, mana-tech weapons, and an army of fans streaming their battles live on the net. Marcel, meanwhile?
He just wanted a little peace and quiet.
"Bro, you're spacing out again."
The words snapped Marcel back to reality. He blinked, finding himself staring at the back of a girl's head in his History of Rift Studies lecture hall. Her hair was dark brown, tied into a ponytail that swayed each time she jotted down notes. He'd been watching it sway for… God knew how long.
And now his best friend, Tyrone, had caught him.
"I wasn't spacing out," Marcel muttered, scribbling nonsense in his notebook to prove he was totally, definitely paying attention.
Tyrone grinned, his teeth bright against his dark skin. He was the tallest of their group, broad-shouldered and athletic. Not Awakened, but he played basketball with such natural skill that everyone kept expecting his powers to show up any day. "Yeah, sure. You were just mentally calculating the trajectory of her ponytail, huh?"
Marcel's face warmed. "Shut up."
On his other side, Elliot leaned in with a sly smirk. Elliot was the joker of the group, skinny, sharp-featured, with a mop of blond hair that always looked one gust away from falling off. "Nah, nah, don't shut up. Let the man dream. Ponytail girl is a solid eight. Marcel's out here aiming high."
"She's in our group chat for this class project," Marcel hissed, glancing nervously at the girl in front of him. "If she hears you—"
"She won't," Elliot said confidently. "She's too busy actually learning. Unlike us."
The third member of their group, Jun Park, raised an eyebrow without looking up from his tablet. Calm, studious, and effortlessly competent, Jun was the glue that kept their trio from self-destructing. "You're all going to fail this midterm," he said in his usual flat tone. "And I'm not sharing my notes this time."
"Cold, man. Cold," Tyrone groaned.
The four of them had been friends since freshman year, bonded by a shared dorm, a love of bad video games, and the fact that none of them had Awakened. They were the rare normal kids in a school where nearly one in ten had some flashy ability.
And sometimes, it felt like they were living in the shadows of giants.
…..
By the time class ended, Marcel was already dreading the cafeteria. Not because of the food—it was standard reheated slop—but because of the Rangers-in-training who strutted through campus like they owned it.
He spotted one immediately: a girl with flaming red hair, literally flaming, the strands burning like torches. She wore her Guild trainee jacket half-zipped, shoulders squared, mana radiating like heat waves. People stared as she walked by, and she didn't even notice.
"See that?" Tyrone muttered. "That's why you were staring at ponytail girl. You're afraid of women who could barbecue you by accident."
Marcel sighed. "It's not fear. It's self-preservation."
"Uh-huh," Elliot said. "Translation: fear."
Jun shook his head. "He has a point. Most Rangers are unstable in their early years. You're safer with ordinary girls."
Marcel shoved his tray of food onto the table, collapsing into his seat. "Exactly. Safer. Quieter. Simpler."
Tyrone and Elliot shared a look that said our boy's going to die alone.
And maybe they weren't wrong. Marcel wasn't bad-looking—messy dark hair, lean build from part-time warehouse work—but he had all the social boldness of a potato. His attempts at flirting usually ended with awkward silence and the overwhelming desire to crawl into a hole.
But hey. Peace and quiet.
…..
"Clock in, Hugo! The stones don't sort themselves!"
Marcel winced as his manager's voice boomed across the warehouse. The place smelled like dust, oil, and faint ozone from the crates of mana stones stacked along the walls. Each stone pulsed faintly, harvested from fallen Raiders and processed into usable energy.
This was Marcel's part-time gig: lifting, sorting, packing. Nothing glamorous, but it paid.
He shoved on a pair of gloves and got to work, stacking boxes onto pallets. Some were labeled Weapons, some Catalysts, others Miscellaneous. He never opened them—strict company policy—but he'd overheard enough chatter to know the warehouse supplied everything from cheap trinkets to Guild arsenals.
And Marcel? He was the nobody making sure shipments didn't topple in transit.
His coworkers chatted about Rangers and Guild gossip, speculating which celebrity Awakened was dating which, or which Rift zone would collapse next. Marcel stayed quiet, humming to himself as he worked.
Peace and quiet.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Because deep down, a small, gnawing part of him burned with frustration. He saw the Rangers on TV, standing triumphant with fire and lightning and shadows at their command. He saw students his age soaring through the sky, bending steel with bare hands, laughing as they saved lives.
And he was here, stacking boxes.
It wasn't fair. But it was safe. And safe, in this world, was a blessing.
By the time the sun dipped below the New York skyline, painting the warehouse windows orange, Marcel was exhausted. He sat on a crate, wiping sweat from his brow, sipping from a bottle of water that tasted faintly metallic.
Tyrone, Elliot, and Jun were probably gaming by now. Ponytail girl was probably studying, blissfully unaware that Marcel existed. Rangers were probably livestreaming their latest exploits to millions of fans.
And Marcel?
He had his peace and quiet.
He repeated it to himself like a mantra, the words keeping him from slipping into envy. He didn't need to be special. He didn't need mana, or powers, or glory. Just a roof over his head, friends at his side, and a paycheck that kept the lights on.
That was enough.
It had to be.
Suddenly—
The floor shook.
At first, Marcel thought it was an earthquake. The crates rattled, dust falling from the rafters. He grabbed the edge of his pallet, steadying himself.
Then came the sound.
A low, tearing roar, like the sky itself was screaming.
Marcel's blood ran cold. He knew that sound. Everyone did. It was drilled into them from childhood, a warning broadcast on every channel, etched into every survival manual.
A Rift was opening.
Not miles away. Not in some quarantined zone.
Here.
The air split open in the parking lot outside, a jagged wound of swirling violet light. The warehouse lights flickered, the mana stones pulsing wildly in their crates as though resonating with the tear in reality.
And from the Rift, something began to crawl out.