Aiden woke up before his alarm.
The room was still dark, the ceiling fan humming unevenly above him, blades clicking like a tired metronome. His body felt heavy—not the pleasant weight of deep sleep, but the familiar pressure that came from knowing the day was already waiting.
He lay there for a few seconds longer than usual, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling that ran from the corner light fixture to the wall. He'd noticed it years ago. Never asked when it appeared. Cracks, he'd learned, didn't announce themselves. They just showed up one day and quietly spread.
The alarm buzzed at 5:30 a.m.
Aiden reached out and shut it off before it could ring twice.
Beside the bed, his work boots sat neatly against the wall, dust permanently embedded in the creases. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, joints protesting softly. Twenty years old, and already his body carried the fatigue of someone much older. Not injured—just used.
He stood, stretched once, and pulled on a plain gray shirt. No logos. No colors. Neutral. Safe.
In the kitchen, the light flickered before fully coming on. His adopted mother, Mrs. Hayes, had already left for her early shift at the hospital. She always left a note on the counter.
Lunch in the fridge. Be careful today. Love you.
He folded the note and slipped it into his pocket, a habit he didn't remember starting. Some part of him liked carrying proof that someone was thinking about him, even if he never read the notes again once they were folded.
He ate quickly—eggs, toast, coffee strong enough to bite back. Outside, the sky was still a dull blue-gray, the sun not quite ready to show itself. The neighborhood was quiet in that fragile way mornings sometimes were, as if the world hadn't decided yet whether to be kind or cruel.
Aiden locked the door behind him and headed for the bus stop.
The construction site rose from the ground like a half-finished thought.
Steel beams jutted into the sky, skeletal and unfinished, cranes looming overhead like patient predators. The smell of concrete dust and machine oil hung thick in the air. By the time Aiden arrived, several workers were already there—laughing loudly, smoking, shouting over the engines warming up.
"Morning, college boy," someone called out.
Aiden didn't correct them. He never did.
He nodded instead, signed in, and grabbed his helmet. The supervisor, Rick, gave him a brief look and then nodded approvingly.
"You're on the upper frame today," Rick said. "East side."
"Got it," Aiden replied.
No complaints. No questions.
That was why Rick liked him.
That, and the fact that Aiden worked like someone who didn't believe in second chances.
By mid-morning, the sun was up, heat pressing down through steel and concrete. Aiden moved with steady efficiency, hauling materials, securing bolts, checking measurements twice when most men checked once.
He noticed things others didn't—subtle stress fractures, slight misalignments. When he pointed them out, Rick listened.
When others noticed Rick listening, they didn't like it.
Aiden felt it in the looks thrown his way. In the silence that followed his suggestions. In the way conversations stopped when he approached.
He pretended not to notice.
He always did.
During the first break, Aiden sat on a steel beam and drank water, staring out over the city. From up here, everything looked smaller. Manageable. People reduced to moving dots, cars to lines of color.
For a moment—just a moment—his mind drifted.
He thought about equations he hadn't touched in over a year. About textbooks boxed up under his bed. About a future he'd postponed without ever formally canceling.
Later, he told himself, the same word he'd been using since his father died.
Later was a flexible concept. Useful. Dangerous.
"Hey."
Aiden turned.
Mark stood a few feet away, arms crossed. He was older, broader, the kind of man whose strength had always been obvious and whose patience had always been short.
"Rick says you're moving too fast," Mark said.
Aiden frowned slightly. "I'm on schedule."
Mark smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. That's the problem."
Aiden didn't respond. He took another sip of water.
Mark leaned closer. "You think you're better than us?"
"No," Aiden said honestly.
Mark snorted. "Funny. That's not how it looks."
Before Aiden could reply, the break whistle blew. Mark stepped back, expression already neutral, as if the conversation had never happened.
But the air felt heavier afterward.
The afternoon passed slowly.
Aiden worked on the upper levels, wind stronger up there, the ground far below. He'd never been afraid of heights—not because he was brave, but because fear had always felt inefficient. Something to manage, not indulge.
Still, he was careful. Always careful.
The platform beneath him creaked as he moved across it. He adjusted his footing, tightened a bolt, checked the harness line.
Below, voices echoed faintly.
Then someone stepped onto the platform behind him.
Aiden turned, expecting Rick.
It was Mark.
"What are you doing up here?" Aiden asked.
Mark shrugged. "Helping."
He moved closer, boots scraping metal.
Something tightened in Aiden's chest. Not fear—instinct.
"Rick didn't say—"
Mark's hand shoved his shoulder.
Not hard. Not dramatic.
Just enough.
The world tilted.
Time stretched.
The platform edge vanished beneath his feet, and suddenly there was nothing holding him up. The sky rushed sideways, blue and blinding. Wind tore the breath from his lungs.
Aiden's mind raced—not with anger, not with outrage—but with cold, sharp clarity.
This is it.
Images flashed: his mother at the kitchen counter, his father's hands guiding his first bike, unfinished equations scribbled in notebooks.
Regret followed, heavy and suffocating.
Not for risks taken.
For things delayed.
The ground surged upward, impossibly fast.
And then—
Something inside him broke.
No.
Something answered.
Heat flooded his veins, not burning but expanding, like a star igniting in his chest. His skin prickled, every cell screaming with sensation. Pressure wrapped around him, dense and absolute, as if reality itself had clenched a fist.
The fall slowed.
Stopped.
The air warped.
A soundless flash of blue-white light erupted outward, bending space, swallowing dust and debris. The ground below didn't crack.
It vanished.
Concrete didn't shatter—it disintegrated, erased in a perfect circle beneath him.
Aiden hovered, suspended in the air, heart hammering.
He landed gently at the center of the crater, boots touching down on scorched earth that glowed faintly before cooling.
Silence followed.
No screams.
No cheers.
Just the distant wail of alarms and the low hum of energy fading back into him, like a tide retreating from shore.
Aiden looked down at his hands.
They trembled.
But they were his.
He was breathing.
Alive.
Above him, the sky seemed wider than it ever had before.
And somewhere, far beyond the limits of his understanding, instruments screamed, satellites shifted, and forces that had slept for decades took notice.
Aiden lifted his head slowly.
"This wasn't anger," he whispered to no one.
It was survival.
And nothing would ever be normal again.