The flophouse was called Rusty Water, buried at the end of a blind alley in District 4.
No IDs. No questions. Just a cracked counter and a man who never looked up when he took your chips.
Evan sat on the edge of a bed that creaked with every shift of weight. The double-cheese burger lay on the small metal table beside him. Cold now. The grease had turned pale, clinging to the paper like wax.
He ate anyway.
Chew. Swallow. Breathe.
White Owl's blade had kissed his sleeve. The skin beneath still carried a faint red line, thin enough to vanish by morning. If her timing had been cleaner—just a fraction—she would've crossed the edge before his circle finished forming.
He noted it. Filed it away.
The world was learning.
A television bolted to the wall crackled to life, the screen warped with static.
"…an abnormal incident at the West District water plant. Tier-3 Esper known as 'Nightmare' confirmed deceased. Officials cite catastrophic ability overload and urge citizens to—"
Evan reached over and shut it off.
The room went quiet again.
They wouldn't say his name. They wouldn't say Zero.Not yet.
Power was still supposed to mean something in Greyfog City. The lie had to hold.
The light flickered.
Once.Then twice.
Not random.
Evan's hand slid under the pillow and closed around the blade's grip. The wiring in Rusty Water was bad, but it wasn't patterned. This wasn't decay.
"If you're here to complain," he said, not raising his voice, "you missed the door."
"I took the shortest path."
The ceiling darkened.
Something like gold mist leaked from the cracks, thickening, folding in on itself until it took shape. A man hovered there, half-formed, his outline soft as smoke but his presence heavy enough to press on the room.
Pity radiated off him. Practiced. Polished.
"Evan Cross," the figure said. "You are an error. A misprint in the Code."
Heat bloomed.
Air burned. Paint curled. The bedframe hissed.
Evan didn't move.
The figure extended his hand.
Five meters out, the fire vanished.
The glow collapsed. The hovering stopped.
The man dropped.
THUD.
Flesh met floor. Hard.
The sound was ugly. Final.
A middle-aged man lay face-down in ornate robes, gasping like a fish thrown onto concrete. Whatever had held him aloft was gone. Whatever had filled his veins was bleeding out into nothing.
His scream came a second later—not pain. Panic.
Evan stood.
"Rules are simple here," he said. "Step in, you're human."
He crossed the room and planted his boot on the man's hand.
Bones shifted. Skin split.
"Who sent you?"
The man shook, eyes wide, wet with disbelief. Somewhere in the city, he was a Tier-4—one of the blessed. Here, he couldn't even pull his fingers free.
"You—" He choked. "You profane what was given."
"That's yours," Evan said. "Not mine."
He brought the hilt down.
Once.
The man went slack.
Evan packed quickly.
No ritual. No hesitation. The room was already finished.
He opened the window. Fog poured in, thick and damp, swallowing the city lights. He glanced once at the body on the floor, the way you'd glance at something already on its way to being cleared out.
Then he left.
In a city built on miracles, five meters was all he needed.
And no one ever walked into it twice.