Evan dropped from the back window of Rusty Water.
His boots hit the ground. The sound disappeared immediately, swallowed by the city's low industrial pulse—the slow, constant pounding that never stopped in District 4.
The alley was ankle-deep in black sludge. Waste from Esper plants. Sticky. Warm in places. He kept moving, hood down, shoulders loose, slipping between rusted support beams like smoke that knew where it was going.
Then he stopped.
The skin at the base of his skull prickled.
Not danger sense.Pressure.
The air ahead of him felt wrong—thicker, heavier, like his lungs were suddenly expected to work overtime.
At the mouth of the alley, the street bent.
Not visually. Physically.
Four machines squatted there, spaced in a square. Each one was as tall as a delivery truck, bolted into the asphalt. Red lights pulsed on their crowns. With every beat, the ground answered with a deep, sick groan.
Cracks spread. Slowly. Relentlessly.
Evan exhaled through his nose.
"Gravity array."
So they'd stopped trying to touch him.
Three figures stepped forward. Heavy exoskeletons. Industrial gray. No glow, no flair. Hephaestus make—built for jobs where flesh was optional.
A loudspeaker crackled.
"Target confirmed. Evan Cross."The voice was flat. Bored."Local gravity set to eight Gs. Estimated skeletal failure in thirty seconds. Kneel."
The pressure hit fully.
Evan's knees dipped an inch before he caught himself. Muscles screamed. Blood pooled low. Breathing turned expensive.
His five meters spread out around him, quiet and absolute—but the weight didn't lift.
The source was too far.
The gravity didn't belong to an ability anymore. It was already here. Already real.
Eight Gs.
He adjusted his stance. Feet wider. Spine straight. Jaw clenched.
Not enough.
"Increase," the voice said.
The lights strobed faster.
Steel barrels nearby folded inward like paper cups. Brick walls shuddered, mortar squeezing out between them. Dust tried to rise and failed, slammed back into the ground.
Twelve Gs.
Evan tasted iron.
His vision narrowed. Not darkness—compression. Like the world was being pressed into a smaller shape.
He reached for his blade.
Not to fight.
To measure.
He crouched.
Slow. Careful. Every movement deliberate. He let the pressure stack, let it sink into his legs, his hips, his core.
A loaded spring.
Then he moved.
The ground exploded under his foot.
Concrete didn't crack—it gave up. Evan shot forward, body angled low, riding the slope of the force like a downhill sprint.
Under twelve Gs, momentum was honest. No tricks. No miracles.
Distance collapsed.
Five meters.
The machines screamed.
Not alarms—strain.
As Evan crossed the threshold, something inside the gravity units lost sync. The loops stuttered. The balance slipped.
One detonated.
Metal tore free and flew sideways, carving sparks through rain. Evan didn't slow.
He was already there.
The lead mercenary swung.
The exoskeleton was strong. Precise. Built to kill under impossible loads.
Then it entered five meters.
The auxiliary systems died.
The suit didn't fail dramatically. It just… stopped helping.
The punch came late. Heavy. Wrong.
Evan stepped aside and cut.
The blade didn't need to be sharp. Just placed.
Hydraulics split. Fluid sprayed. The suit sagged, suddenly nothing but weight and panic.
Evan kicked off the man's shoulder and ran.
Behind him, the remaining units tried to compensate.
Too late.
The field collapsed.
Everything the gravity had been holding down surged upward at once. Rubble. Dust. Shards of asphalt. The street burst like a wound reopening.
Evan didn't look back.
His chest burned. His legs shook. He kept moving until the pressure was gone and the rain felt light again.
He passed a broken storefront and caught his reflection in the jagged glass.
Gray hood. Flat eyes. Blade dark with oil and blood.
He didn't speak to it.
He slipped into the gaps between neon and shadow, where cameras blinked and missed frames.
Behind him, District 4 kept sinking.
And the weight followed him—quiet, patient, waiting for the next place to land.