The beam should not be that heavy.
Ryn's shoulders burned anyway.
Steel groaned above his head as he and three other workers in faded orange vests inched the support into place. The half-finished skyscraper around them was nothing but ribs and scaffolding, a jagged skeleton against the washed-out morning sky. No glowing sigils. No drifting auras. Just dust, sweat, and the slow clank of metal.
"Up—up—hold it—"
The foreman's voice cut through the noise. Ryn dug in his heels on the narrow platform, boots scraping rust, every muscle in his arms shaking.
"Two more seconds!" someone grunted.
The beam slid home with a dull, final clunk. Bolts bit. Weight settled. Ryn let his breath spill out in a shaky laugh, fingers loosening from the rough metal as the others whooped and clapped each other on the back.
No one clapped him. That was fine. He didn't expect it.
He stepped back from the edge of the platform and rolled his stiff shoulders. The wind up here tasted of concrete dust and exhaust. From this height, the Null Sector looked almost normal: rows of low apartment blocks, thin roads, a patchy strip of park that tried very hard to be green. Far beyond, past the haze, faint lines of light traced the richer districts where Resonants lived—shimmering towers, floating transit lines, the distant hum of Sin-tech that Nulls only heard about on the news.
"Break time!" the foreman shouted. "Ten minutes. Ryn, don't overdo it. You're looking pale."
Ryn glanced at his reflection in a scratched metal panel—dark hair stuck to his forehead, eyes ringed with tired shadows, skin smeared with dust. Pale was just his neutral setting.
"I'm fine," he called back.
He set his tools down and pulled off his gloves. His hands were a web of calluses and tiny scars, burn marks from welding splattered across his fingers and knuckles. They looked like hands that belonged here—on beams and bolts, not on glowing relics or etched sigils.
That was the point, he reminded himself.
He flexed his fingers once, then reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a folded scrap of paper. The edges were worn soft from being opened too many times. Tiny numbers and notes covered the front, crammed into every bit of white space.
SRI = Sin Resonance Index. SRI 1-10 = Null. Is there a possible chance to resonate without a high enough SRI?...
Underneath, a question circled three times:
How does SRI relate to Resonance?
Ryn stared at the question, thumb rubbing over the ink until it smudged.
"Whatcha got there, Null?"
The voice came from his left. Jarron, one of the older workers, leaned against a support column, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The word "Null" wasn't spat like an insult, but it wasn't just a description either. In the Null Sector, it was both job title and joke.
"Nothing," Ryn said, folding the paper quickly and stuffing it back into his pocket.
"Oh? Writing love letters to Resonants again?" Jarron snorted. "Careful. Think too hard about sin, you might grow some." He wiggled his fingers, miming crackling energy.
The other workers nearby laughed. It was easy laughter, not cruel, but it still pricked.
"If thinking was all it took, this place would be glowing," Ryn said. The joke landed softer than he felt, but it got a few chuckles.
Jarron took a drag, then jerked his chin toward the distant bright districts. "You hear about that incident last week? Over in the North Spire. Some Wrath hotshot went berserk in the middle of a dispute. Whole block gone, they say. Poof." He opened his hand in a little explosion.
"News exaggerates," someone muttered.
"Yeah? Tell that to the people who live there. Guy punched straight through a concrete pillar—SRI must've been 80 at least. How does that go unnoticed?? He leapt three stories like it was nothing."
Ryn listened, eyes drifting again to where the skyline changed from rust to light. Resonants. Orders. Relics. All the things that existed firmly on the other side of an invisible line. They'd tested him three times as a kid—school, military draft, even once at a free clinic. Every machine had glitched, spitting out nonsense readings before defaulting to "SRI 1." Faulty equipment, they said. He wasn't special. Just another Null.
He had never felt a single flicker.
"Break's over in eight," the foreman reminded them. "Eat something before you pass out. That includes you, Ryn."
"I said I'm fine," Ryn muttered, but he reached into his lunchbox anyway and fished out a dense rice ball, biting into it mechanically. Fuel in, work out. Repeat.
Above them, the sky seemed ordinary: a pale blue washed thin by city haze. The only strange thing was a faint, almost non-existent vibration in his chest—like standing near a generator and feeling the hum through the floorboards.
He frowned and looked down at the beam beneath his boots.
The metal was still.
No one else reacted. No sirens, no shouts, no visible resonance flares.
Maybe I'm imagining it.
He shoved the unease down, the way he shoved most things down these days, and finished the rice ball in three bites. The foreman clapped his hands—back to it. Beams to lift, welds to set. The day would end like any other.
Ryn trudged down the last flight of external stairs, the city's evening hum settling around him like a familiar weight. The Null Sector came alive at dusk: street vendors hawking lukewarm noodles, kids kicking a battered ball between concrete pillars, the low murmur of television sets blaring Resonant news from open windows. No floating lanterns. No aura-lit billboards. Just sodium streetlights flickering to life one by one.
His chest pressure hadn't returned, but the memory of it lingered like a bruise.
The walk from the site took twenty minutes, cutting through narrow alleys where laundry hung like sagging flags. He passed the usual signs: Resonant-Only District: 3km →, SRI Testing: Free for Ages 12-18. Once, he'd lingered outside the clinic window, watching the machine hum to life for the kid ahead of him. Green light. SRI 12. The mother had cried. Not because he was being shipped off to the life of luxury that everybody else dreamed of, but because he was not a null.
Ryn's turn, the screen had fritzed—static, error code, then a reluctant 1. The technician had shrugged. "Null. Happens."
He shook off the memory and turned onto Melissa's street. Her house was a squat two-story squeezed between a repair shop and a noodle stand, its faded blue paint peeling like old skin. Smoke curled from the kitchen window—dinner. His stomach growled despite the rice ball.
He climbed the exterior stairs to the attic conversion, his rented space above the main house. The door stuck as always; he shouldered it open.
The attic was spare: narrow bed shoved against one wall, a desk cluttered with tools and half-finished sketches, a single bulb casting long shadows. His notebooks were stacked neatly on the shelf—six of them, edges frayed, covers filled with numbers, diagrams, fragments of rumors. Sin Frequencies. Order Structures. Kxras Myths. The last one was dangerous reading in some districts, but here in the slums, it was just eccentric.
A sharp knock came from the floorboards below. Melissa's voice, muffled but clear: "Food's almost ready! You eating or starving up there?"
Ryn grinned despite himself. "Coming!"
He washed his hands in the chipped sink, scrubbing away the day's grime, then descended the interior stairs. The main house smelled of sizzling garlic and soy—Melissa's domain. She stood at the stove, dark purple hair tied back, apron dusted with flour, stirring a wok with practiced flicks.
"Don't forget groceries tomorrow," she said without turning. "Old church market—better prices than the chain store. Don't stay up theorizing again. You'll give yourself a headache."
Ryn slid into a chair at the small table, watching her move. Melissa wasn't family—not by blood—but she'd been the closest thing since he had never known his parents. He lived off the street his entire life. Renting him the attic had been her idea. "Can't let you sleep on the street, dummy."
"Church market?" he asked, keeping his tone casual. The old church district had a reputation—run-down, whispers of cult graffiti on the stone walls. "You sure? Heard some bad rumors lately."
She slid a plate in front of him—noodles piled high with vegetables and thin slices of pork. "Rumors about Resonants, probably. Same as always." She sat across from him, digging into her own plate. "Besides, I can handle myself. SRI 8 ain't nothing."
Ryn nodded, twirling noodles onto his chopsticks. Melissa's resonance was low-end—but no where close to ever resonating, no real power. The difference between their SRI was almost indistinguishable, however, it was always still more than him.
They ate in comfortable rhythm, the only sounds the clink of bowls and distant street noise. Halfway through, Melissa glanced at his hands—still faintly scarred from work.
"Notebook again today?" she asked.
He paused, then pulled the worn paper from his pocket, sliding it across the table. "Just... thinking. What if it's possible for us to awaken? Maybe it's just dormant. Not empty. I could be so much more than just an SRI 1 Null"
Melissa scanned the scribbles, her expression caught between amusement and concern. "The machines always said 1. Faulty calibration. You're not 'empty,' Ryn. You're just..." She waved a hand. "You."
He managed a half-smile. "Yeah. Just me."
She pushed the paper back. "Eat. Mom and Dad will be back soon from their shift." "And don't wait up tomorrow," she added, standing to clear plates. "Church market before my shift starts. Better prices."
Ryn nodded, but as he finished his meal, that faint pressure stirred again behind his ribs—subtle, like distant thunder felt through bone.
He glanced out the window toward the old church district, where the sky hung heavy and gray.
The city hummed on, oblivious.
For now.
Ryn woke to the familiar jolt of his alarm buzzing against the bedside crate. Gray light seeped through the attic window, painting the room in muted tones. His notebook lay open where he'd left it, the circled question staring up at him: How does SRI relate to Resonance?
Downstairs, dishes clinked—Melissa's parents already up, their morning routine as predictable as the construction schedule. He dressed quickly, pulling on yesterday's work clothes, and grabbed his lunchbox. The chest pressure from last night was gone, just a phantom memory. Probably fatigue.
"Breakfast!" Melissa called as he hit the main floor. She slid a plate across the table—rice, pickled vegetables, a single egg. Her parents nodded from their chairs, bleary-eyed from the night shift at the textile factory. "Morning," Ryn mumbled, digging in. Melissa's mom, a wiry woman with the same purple hair, glanced at him.
"Work today?"
"Always."
Her dad grunted approval, mouth full. Melissa lingered by the stove, watching him eat. "Don't slack. Foreman mentioned you yesterday."
Ryn swallowed. "Jarron talks too much."
She smirked. "He says you think too much. Same difference."
The walk to work was the usual blur—Null Sector waking up, vendors shouting, kids dodging between legs. Melissa peeled off toward the textile district with a wave. "Church market after shift. See you tonight." Ryn nodded, turning toward the construction site. The morning air felt heavier somehow, like the city held its breath.
The site buzzed louder than usual. Workers clustered around a battered radio on the foreman's crate, voices overlapping in agitation.
"—North Spire cleanup still ongoing. Wrath Resonant, SRI estimated 82, entered a berserk state during domestic dispute. Casualties: 14 confirmed. Orders investigating.—"
Jarron spat on the ground. "Domestic dispute. Right. Probably some Pride noble mouthing off to the wrong guy." The foreman waved them quiet. "Work now, gossip later. Ryn—beam four needs welding. Move." Ryn grabbed his torch, the weight familiar in his hands. As he climbed the scaffold, snatches of conversation drifted up:
"Guy punched clean through load-bearing concrete. SRI 80-plus, easy."
"Leapt from street level to fifth floor. Reflexes like that—you don't dodge, you react*."*
"Orders hushed it up fast. No names released."
Ryn sparked the torch, blue flame hissing to life. Resonance. Always resonance. He'd seen the vids—Resonants moving faster than eyes could track, shrugging off blows that would shatter Null bones. SRI 50-plus meant strength beyond human limits, speed that turned brawls into massacres. But it was the awakened ones, the ones who'd cracked under trauma, that got the real powers. Weapons from wrath. Illusions from envy. The stuff of nightmares and headlines.
He finished the weld, sweat beading despite the morning chill. Jarron climbed up beside him, wiping his brow.
"You hear that SRI number? Eighty-two. Man's a walking siege weapon."
Ryn killed the torch. "And a walking corpse if the Orders catch him."
Jarron snorted. "Orders'd recruit him first. High SRI's a ticket out—Null Sector stays Null for a reason."
Ryn glanced at his scarred hands, flexing them. "Not if the machines say SRI 1."
"Malfunction," Jarron said automatically. "Happens. You're strong enough for this work. That's what matters."
Ryn nodded, but his eyes drifted to the horizon again. The Resonant districts shimmered brighter today, towers catching the climbing sun. A faint hum pulsed through the scaffold—or was it his chest again? He shook it off.
Just imagination.
Lunch break brought more rumors. The radio crackled with fresh reports:
"—authorities confirm no dimensional breach. Resonance flare contained. Citizens advised to report unusual sightings."
The foreman killed it. "Enough. Back to it before the inspectors show."
But Jarron wouldn't drop it. "Unusual sightings. That's new. You think something leaked?"
"From where?" another worker challenged. "Dimensions are locked tight. Concord's got Wardens on every gate."
"Yeah, till one doesn't." Jarron lit another cigarette. "Heard whispers—old church district, graffiti with that Kxras symbol. Cult nonsense."
Ryn paused mid-bite, rice ball forgotten. "Kxras?"
"Primordial Sin. Old myths. Split into the seven fragments that birthed resonance itself." Jarron waved smoke away. "Church market's full of that trash. Melissa shopping there?"
Ryn's jaw tightened. "Tomorrow."
"Tell her watch herself. Her SRI isn't as low as some of the people's here, but it don't mean she's invincible."
The foreman clapped. "Break's over. Work!"
The afternoon dragged—beams heavier, welds trickier, that phantom pressure flickering in Ryn's chest like a bad signal. By quitting whistle, his shoulders screamed and his mind churned.
He waved off Jarron's invite to the noodle stand. "Attic calling."
"Suit yourself, theorist." Jarron grinned. "Stay away from churches."
Ryn trudged home through thickening dusk. The Null Sector felt... off. Streetlights flickered erratically. Vendors packed up early. A siren wailed distant, then cut off.
Melissa's house stood quiet, kitchen window dark. No dinner smells. Odd.
He climbed to the attic, shouldered the door open. Empty. Note on the table downstairs in her neat script:
Church market early. Mom needed vegetables. Back before dark. Don't theorize yourself sick. -M
Ryn exhaled, tension easing. Early trip. Fine. Normal.
He sank onto the bed, pulling out the notebook. How does SRI relate to Resonance? The question mocked him now, with Jarron's cult whispers and that morning's flare report fresh in his head. He sketched idly—fractured diagrams, sin frequency waves, a circled one that suffocated him.
The attic bulb flickered.
Ryn glanced up. Outside, the sky hung unnaturally heavy, bruise-purple clouds rolling in fast. That chest pressure returned, stronger now—a low thrum syncing with his heartbeat.
A single, sharp CRACK split the air. A boom so loud it could knock over a person plowed the stillness of the night.
The house shook. Plaster dust sifted from the ceiling. Glassware crashed downstairs. Ryn lunged for the window—
In the distance, over the old church district, a translucent dome pulsed into existence, swallowing rooftops in shimmering haze. Sirens erupted city-wide. Screams followed.
His pulse hammered. Melissa.
Ryn grabbed his jacket and bolted for the door.