Chapter 1 — Running Rot
I can always tell when he's behind me.
The ground doesn't just shake—it groans, like the bones of Sane City itself want to splinter and collapse under his weight. Mega Stone. The hammer. The so-called hero. Every time he closes in, the world feels smaller, heavier, like his shadow is trying to crush me before he even swings.
And me? I just run.
The streets are wet with last night's ash-rain, every puddle a black mirror reflecting the ruin above. Towers lean like drunks too tired to keep standing. Rust drips from iron like old blood. And still, somehow, life clings. A market spills across the cracked street—stalls of rotten fruit, dented cans, boots worn down to the sole. The vendors bark out their trades, their voices shaky, never rising above the dull hum of the city.
No one looks up when I barrel through. That's Sane City. You don't see the chaos. You don't see the plague. If you keep your head down, maybe it'll pass you by.
But it never does.
---
I should explain. Not about me—there's nothing worth explaining about me. About us. The powered.
We're rare. One in ten births. Ten percent of humanity gets touched by something. Some say it's evolution. Some say it's punishment. Some say it's the gods playing dice. Whatever it is, people call it a blessing.
But they never talk about the other side of it—the curse. It always comes with one. Every power balances itself like a cruel joke.
I knew a fire-breather once. He could torch a whole block with a scream, but his skin was cold as death. He never felt warmth again, never even enjoyed sunlight. His family stopped hugging him because his touch froze their skin.
There was a woman who healed with a kiss. Saved hundreds. But every wound she closed bloomed on her body. Her arms were latticed with scars she never earned.
A man who flew like a bird. He couldn't eat anymore. His stomach rejected everything solid, like gravity wanted to keep dragging him down from the inside.
And me?
My blessing: I can spread disease. Fevers, infections, plagues that choke out the air. I can rot a crowd without lifting a finger.
My curse: I can't stop. Even when I hold my breath, some sickness still leaks out. People near me cough harder, ache longer, fade faster. I don't mean to—I never mean to—but it happens. Always.
So why am I running? Because no one forgives a curse. And every time I live, someone else dies.
---
"Alex!"
His voice cuts through the market like an axe through bone. I don't need to look back to know Mega Stone is gaining. I feel him in the pavement, in the shudder of my ribs. The hero of Sane City, chasing the city's plague.
"Enough running!" His shout makes the vendors freeze. A hush ripples through the crowd. People turn their eyes toward me now, like I've suddenly grown a brand across my forehead.
I lower my head and push harder through the stalls. Rotten oranges burst under my boots. I shoulder past a man carrying a sack of rice; it splits, spilling grain like sand. A woman yells as I knock her sideways. My lips shape the word "sorry" before I even think about it.
But sorry means nothing here. Not anymore.
Mega Stone barrels after me, his body armored in rock. His shoulders smash through tables. His feet punch divots into the ground. Someone screams when he brushes past, skin scraping stone, sparks lighting in the air.
The market dissolves into chaos, everyone scattering, but I can't disappear. I never can.
---
My boot snags a length of rebar jutting from a broken slab of concrete. My arms windmill, and then I'm down. My hands scrape raw against gravel, pain flashing hot up my arms.
The crowd parts in terror as his shadow falls over me. His fist rises, jagged and heavy.
"You can't keep running forever," Mega Stone growls. His stone-lined voice is the sound of tombs sealing shut.
And he's right. I can't.
---
For just a heartbeat, I hesitate. I could lie here. Let him end it. Let the city spit my name into the dirt and be done with it.
But then memory cuts sharp.
A little girl once, fevered and trembling. Her parents begged me to help. I pressed my hand to her forehead and drew the fire out of her body, pulling it into mine. She sighed, peaceful, her tiny fingers gripping mine. She whispered, thank you.
For a moment, I believed. Believed that my gift could outweigh the curse. Believed I could help, even just one person.
But the fever came back stronger. She didn't make it. None of them ever do.
Now her face haunts me every time I breathe.
---
Instinct slams the choice out of me. I exhale.
The air thickens. An invisible fog blooms from my lungs, crawling across the street. It clings to throats, seeps into lungs.
The first cough cracks the silence. Then another. Then another. A chain of hacking, gagging, choking.
I don't need to watch—I feel it. Their blood cooling, their veins trembling, their skin paling like wax.
But I watch anyway.
A vendor drops his basket of bruised pears, clutching his chest, foam flecking his lips. A mother hugs her coughing child tight, rocking him, tears mixing with the blood on his shirt. A boy stares at his own trembling hands as fever blotches bloom.
The screams rise like smoke.
And I run.
---
I claw my way through the fog, heart thundering in my ears.
I glance back once. Just once.
The market is collapsing into panic. Dozens lie on the ground, shuddering, gasping, some already still. Faces I brushed past seconds ago now drained of color, lips cracked and blue. The mother and child twitch in each other's arms. The vendor spasms beside his fruit, blood trickling from his nose.
It's always the same.
I live.
They die.
The guilt stabs sharp, cutting deeper than any blade could.
---
I stumble into an alley, my body trembling with exhaustion. Mildew drips from the walls, the bricks slick and soft with decay. I collapse against them, sliding down until the damp soaks my back. My breath saws through my chest, thick and heavy. Sweat streaks my face. My vision blurs.
Behind me, the market is a chaos of coughing, screaming, and Mega Stone's voice booming over it all: "Stay calm! I'll catch him! I'll protect you!"
The thunder of his steps rattles the ground, but they fade, swallowed by the crowd. He's not on me—not yet.
I press my forehead to my knees. My breath rattles like a broken engine. Tears sting my eyes, salt cutting through the stink of rot.
"I just keep running…" The whisper croaks out of me, soft, pathetic. "…but I'm running out of places to go."
The alley drips. The city breathes. The silence around me grows heavy, almost alive, as if the city itself is leaning closer to listen.
And in that silence, for just a heartbeat, I swear I hear Sane City whisper back.