Chapter One: The Silent Storm
The city never really slept, but in the slums, it sure pretended to.
Down here, neon signs buzzed weakly over cracked concrete, half of them dead, the other half too dim to matter. Above, the Upper Districts glowed like another world — towers of glass and chrome shining through the smog, lights burning all night like they never had to think about rationing. But in Lower Arctis, things were different. Eleven o'clock hit, and the nets shut down. Screens went black. Streets went quiet.
That's where Kirro lived.
He had turned sixteen that morning, though birthdays didn't mean much anymore. No gifts, no parties — not when families scraped to afford filtered water and cheap ration packs. His mom had still made his favorite flatbread with chili oil, though, and for Kirro that was enough.
Still, he dreamed of more. Not broken streets. Not rationed power. Not being stuck under the glow of people richer than him. He wanted out — maybe even into the Barrier Guard, the soldiers who fought the mutated beasts that lurked outside the walls. The weakest of them were said to be five times stronger than an average man. The strongest? Monsters in their own right.
Kirro? He was just another kid stuck in the slums.
Or so he thought.
The Night Falls
Late that night, the curfew buzzers sounded and the networks cut off with their usual low hum. Kirro sighed as his screen blinked to black. He grabbed the trash bag from the corner, tugged on his old hoodie, and slipped outside into the alley behind their block.
The slums at night always felt strange. Too quiet, like the city itself was holding its breath. Somewhere high above, a cargo mag-train roared past, carrying goods to people who would never know what it was like to live down here.
Kirro dumped the trash into the rusted bin, brushing his hands together. That's when it hit him.
A prickling sensation crawled up his neck. His skin tingled like the air itself was waiting.
He frowned and glanced up. The streetlamps buzzed faintly, flickering once, then twice.
"Great," he muttered. "Power grid's dying again."
But the flickers weren't random. They followed him. Each step he took, the lights seemed to react.
The air smelled sharp, metallic. Like a storm was building where it shouldn't.
"What the hell…"
Before he could finish, a spark cracked from his fingertips, snapping against the side of the bin. He stumbled back, staring at his hand. Tiny arcs of blue-white light crawled across his skin, hissing in the dark before fading.
For one breathless second, the entire alley lit up. His chest tightened, his pulse hammering like it was made of wires instead of blood.
And then it was gone. The lamps steadied. The air calmed.
Kirro stood frozen, staring at his trembling hand. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a grin.
"…No way," he whispered, voice shaky but alive with something he hadn't felt in years. "Finally."
On the night of his sixteenth birthday, while the city slept, the storm inside him woke up.