The emergency room smelled of antiseptic and lingering fear. Arjun didn't belong here, not officially. Sinclair Academy's hierarchy dictated that students with his "rank"—the unofficial Zero—didn't merit a discreet call to a private physician. They merited a quick shove out the back gate. But the Academy was meticulous about its image. Rohan's final, powered punch, disguised as a simple assault, had left bruises that were too deep, too quickly, forcing a reluctant hospital visit to prevent a full-blown scandal.
His sister, Priya, sat by his bedside, her small hand clutching his. She was the one true piece of warmth in his cold, hostile world. Her eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were red-rimmed and swollen.
"He... he said things about me," Priya whispered, her voice cracking. "That's why you fought, isn't it?"
Arjun tried to smile, but the movement aggravated the bruised muscles in his side. "It wasn't your fault, Priya. He's just a bully, and eventually, they get bored. I just... I stood up a little too straight this time."
He lied, smoothing over the truth he couldn't even articulate to himself. It wasn't about standing up straight. It was about that frequency, that strange, buzzing echo he felt just before the impact. It was the feeling of a punch that should have broken him, yet only left him fractured.
"You need to stop fighting," Priya pleaded, her grip tightening. "Just ignore them, Arjun. Please. I don't care about their ranks or their stupid academy. I just care about you."
Her plea drove a spike of guilt into his heart. He had made a promise to his dead parents to protect her, to finish his education, to somehow climb out of the gutter they'd been left in. But surviving meant standing up, and standing up meant being broken. He felt the sickening loop of his hopeless reality closing in.
What if I didn't have to be broken?
He needed to understand the fight. The memory of Rohan's Blitz—the three relentless, unrefined blows—was crystal clear in his mind. He closed his eyes and played the sequence. Shift, sway, block. He perfectly replicated the minute body movements he'd used, the spontaneous mirroring of Rohan's rhythm. It was a flawless imitation, and it terrified him. He had no martial arts training, yet his body had executed a genius-level defensive sequence.
He tried to replicate Rohan's final, powered strike. He tightened his fist, focused his anger, and nothing happened. No buzzing, no frequency. Just a normal, weak fist.
The ability was defensive, tied to the desperate need for survival, and perhaps, tied to the energy of the attacker.
Priya eventually drifted off to sleep, her head resting on the sheet beside his arm. Arjun carefully slipped out of the bed. He knew the Academy doctor would dismiss him soon, and he had no time to waste. He wasn't looking for revenge yet; he was looking for answers, and perhaps, a shield.
He made his way to the nurses' station, pretending to look for a water fountain. He pulled out the worn, discreetly folded piece of paper he'd found tucked into a locker during his brief, panicked search after the fight. It wasn't a note, but a crudely drawn map, a bizarre sequence of symbols and street names scribbled in what looked like permanent marker.
It led to the outskirts of the city, the neglected docks district—a place where the Academy's influence was thin, and the shadows were thick. It was the only lead he had, a desperate, irrational beacon of hope.
Hours later, as the smog-choked dawn broke over the city, Arjun found himself standing in front of an abandoned shipyard warehouse. The air here tasted of rust and salt, a sharp contrast to the Academy's sterile veneer. The map led to a steel door, heavily chained and padlocked.
"Waste of time," he muttered, the chill seeping through his thin clothes. The fight with Rohan had cost him his meager savings, his dignity, and now his hope. He kicked the door, the sound echoing hollowly.
"You kick a locked door like you fought that bully—all noise, no commitment."
The voice was rough, like gravel ground into sand, and came from the shadows above.
Arjun spun around, wincing at the pull in his side. Perched impossibly on a rusted cargo crane thirty feet up, was a man. He was lean, dressed in utilitarian black, and seemed to blend with the rust and decay. His face was obscured by the shadows of the crane, but his presence was heavy, radiating an aura of disciplined, dangerous stillness.
"Who are you?" Arjun called up, immediately on guard.
The man dropped down. Not climbed, not jumped, but dropped. He landed with a soft thud that should have cracked bone, yet he was completely steady. He wore a faded, anonymous jacket and had the kind of eyes that looked like they'd seen too many endings. This was Rana.
"Me? I'm the one who sweeps up the messes left by arrogant kids," Rana said, walking slowly towards Arjun. He stopped inches away, his gaze sharp and dissecting. "You're the Zero Ranker. The one who copied the Blitz but still took the punch. Pathetic."
Arjun bristled, his small store of fight rising again. "I didn't copy anything. And I'm here because I need help. I need to know how to stop them."
Rana chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "You stood in front of a heavy truck and tried to block it with a handshake. You think 'stopping them' is a matter of learning a few tricks? You don't have the stomach for it, kid."
"I have no choice!" Arjun's voice cracked with the sheer weight of his situation. "They're going after Priya. I felt something in that fight—something that wasn't mine. That punch... it felt like a frequency, and my body tried to absorb it. I'm telling you the truth. If you know anything about the Academy, about those who fight with power, you have to help me!"
Rana's eyes narrowed. The mention of 'frequency' had hit home. He stared at the bruise forming on Arjun's ribcage, the tell-tale sign of Rohan's Kinetic Amplification—a power Rana knew well from his past in the Awakened underworld. He had seen that type of injury too many times.
"Frequency," Rana repeated softly, testing the word. "So, the Zero isn't just a copycat. He's a Resonator."
He grabbed Arjun's arm with surprising speed and strength, pulling him closer. "The secret to power in that academy isn't in their fancy techniques; it's in their foundation. And your foundation is cotton wool. If you copy a punch, your arm breaks. If you absorb a frequency, your brain cooks. You want to learn? You want to survive the next hit?"
Rana released him and walked back to the steel door, pulling out a hidden, elaborate key from his boot.
"I won't teach you powers. Powers are a leash. I'll teach you how to make your body an unbreakable shield. I'll teach you the physical language that speaks louder than any cheap parlor trick."
He twisted the key, and the heavy lock clicked open. The door groaned inwards, revealing a vast, dark interior—a perfect, forgotten training ground.
Rana looked back at Arjun, his expression hard, unforgiving. "This is not about winning, Zero. This is about not being destroyed. You step inside, you forget your name, your rank, and your excuses. You step inside, and you belong to me until you can stand on your own two feet. Are you ready to suffer for the right to breathe?"
Arjun looked down at his bruised hands, then at the dark, promising sanctuary of the warehouse. He thought of Priya, of Rohan's sneer, and the strange, echoing power that had saved his life. He took a deep, painful breath.
"Yes. Tell me what to do, Master."
Rana didn't smile. He simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the painful journey ahead. "Good. First lesson: your body is an enemy you must conquer. We start with the basics. Run until you bleed."