The sunset painted the city in shades of neon and dying orange, marking the end of the day for most and the beginning of the night shift for others. Beyond the glass window, the sprawling metropolis buzzed with life. Yet, the young man lying on his bed ignored the stunning view, his eyes glued to the comic book in his hands, completely absorbed in a world that wasn't his own.
The comic's hero was shouting about justice, about destiny, words that sounded powerful on paper, but meaningless in my room.
By the time he finally closed the book and looked out the window, the sky had pitch-blackened, illuminated only by towering holograms and the endless streams of hover-car traffic.
Somewhere far away, a Tower warning beacon blinked red for a moment, then vanished behind a billboard ad. Even the danger in this city was packaged neatly, kept distant, kept quiet.
Sigh.
"Another day," I muttered
No matter how long he stared at the bustling sci-fi cityscape, he couldn't feel a shred of connection to it.
The city felt like a movie playing behind glass. Bright. Loud. Untouchable.
I wasn't from this world.
Not originally.
On Earth, I'd been an ordinary man with an ordinary life and an uncertain future. No great tragedy. No great dream either. Then one day, gone. When I opened my eyes again, I was here. A different sky. A different language on the screens. A different kind of danger is hiding behind everyday peace.
Sometimes I wondered if Earth had even been real, or if I'd just dreamed it to give myself an excuse for why I never fit in here.
And I was born an orphan.
Raised in an orphanage, fed by donations, pushed through school, then shoved into adulthood like a defective product no one wanted to refund. I got a boring online job, paid my rent, and spent my evenings in the safest way possible—inside my room, consuming fiction that other people dared to live.
My name in this world was Kieran Vale.
It sounded sharp enough, like someone important should own it. But I didn't.
This world had "transcendent" people—heroes, monsters, factions, powers that could bend physics. One in ten thousand awakened, they said.
I wasn't one of them.
No golden finger. No secret talent.
Just me.
I exhaled again, sharper this time, as if I could force the heaviness out of my lungs.
Sigh. Enough depressing thoughts.
I realised I hadn't stepped outside my apartment in thirteen days. It was time to go out, get some fresh air, and clear my head.
The apartment smelled faintly like instant noodles and recycled air. My phone had a pile of ignored notifications. None of them mattered.
After a hot shower and throwing on some decent clothes, I headed down to the apartment complex's basement garage to grab my motorcycle.
The basement lights flickered in soft patterns, energy-saving, "mood-friendly." A security camera tracked me as I walked, its lens following like a bored eye.
Riding through the city at night always felt surreal. Nano-lights hovered in the air, illuminating the streets, while magnetic trains flashed past overhead like shooting stars. I sped through the semi-empty roads, letting the cool wind wash away my worries
The wind always made me feel like I could become someone else—someone who belonged in the city instead of hiding from it.
I rode with no plan, letting the bike's navigation AI suggest routes at random.
Turn left in fifty meters.
I followed.
Sometimes I stayed on wide streets. Sometimes I slipped into maze-like alleys where the lights were dimmer, and the buildings leaned close together like they were whispering secrets.
A couple walked past me wearing smart-fabric coats that changed colour with their heartbeat. A delivery drone zipped by, close enough that I could hear its stabilisers.
For the first time in days, my head felt… lighter.
Then, far ahead, the sound came.
Sirens.
Not the small, routine kind. These were loud enough to shake my ribs. Above the rooftops, a searchlight swept across the skyline.
My fingers tightened on the handlebars.
Police sirens in this district weren't normal. Here, people paid for quiet. For distance. For the illusion that nothing ugly could touch them.
As I ventured further from my neighbourhood, the shrill wail of police sirens pierced the night. Overhead, heavily armoured helicopters that looked like giant mechanical insects swept past, shining massive searchlights down onto the streets
For a second, the helicopter's spotlight swept across me, and the bike's onboard AI dimmed my display automatically—"civilian compliance mode," like the machine was afraid to.
My bike slowed as my curiosity sharpened into focus.
Police activity was rare on this side of the city. This district was mostly civilian housing, quiet money, quiet lives, quiet people who pretended the world outside the towers didn't exist.
Other pedestrians had stopped too. A small flow of people moved in the same direction, drawn by the sirens like moths.
I followed.
The closer we got, the more the street changed—more drones in the air, more tension in the silence between people's whispers.
A few blocks later, we reached a ten-story residential complex—luxurious, clean, the kind of building with its own private security and gardens on the roof. Police barriers surrounded it in a wide circle, and drones hovered above, recording everything.
People gathered behind the line, whispering.
I parked my bike a little away from the crowd.
And for some reason I couldn't explain, I had the sudden curiosity, maybe because I am out of my comfort zone after a long time.