The world didn't end when I lost the Nexus. It just started unraveling quietly.
News feeds loop the same images: collapsed bridges, energy storms over downtown London, a Harbinger sighting in Seoul that leaves an entire district without power. Every headline bleeds urgency. Every reporter talks like the world's tipping somewhere we can't pull it back from.
Mom calls it aftershock — the world recalibrating. But I know better. This is what happens when too many people try to play god in the same sandbox.
Sentinel's tightening its grip. The Harbingers are moving in shadows again. And the rest of us — the metas who didn't pick a side — we're caught in the gravity of everyone else's choices.
School feels like static now. People whisper when I walk by, not as loudly as they used to, but loud enough to hear pieces. "Isn't that the kid who—?"—the one Sentinel had?"—he's normal now, right?"
I try not to listen, but the words stick anyway. "Normal." As if that's supposed to be comforting.
Sariya walks with me between classes sometimes. She doesn't ask about the Nexus anymore, but I see the question sitting behind her eyes — Do you miss it? The answer's yes. Every minute.
She says I seem quieter now. I tell her the world got louder.
After school, I take the long way home — past the edge of the city where the skyline starts to fray. Construction cranes stand frozen like they're afraid to move. A police drone buzzes overhead, scanning with its red beam before veering off toward a column of smoke rising near the harbor.
That's the thing about this new world: danger doesn't announce itself anymore. It just happens, and then it's already too late.
I pass a café with its windows boarded up. Someone spray-painted NO MORE HEROES across the wood in neon yellow. Underneath, in smaller handwriting, someone else added: Just survivors.
The closer I get home, the more I see the divide.
Sentinel patrols in armored uniforms walk the streets like they own them — scanning, questioning, keeping peace the way you keep an animal on a chain. Across from them, protestors with masks hold signs that say LET US LIVE FREE. Some metas stand on rooftops, watching. Not heroes. Not villains. Just people like me who've seen too much to pick a flag.
And somewhere in that chaos, the Harbingers are moving — not as conquerors this time, but as whispers. Vesper. Breaker. The ones whose names were bedtime threats for children now walk among us again, only half-seen, half-believed.
They're not striking cities like before — they're targeting people. Scientists, government liaisons, anyone connected to Sentinel's inner projects. Anyone who might have access to The Core.
I don't go near the news when Mom's home. She's been trying to hold everything together — work, family, what's left of her peace of mind. But at night, I hear her on the phone with Dad. His voice crackles through the static of whatever war zone he's in. She never says much. Just nods, whispers, "Be safe," and hangs up like she doesn't believe it.
Booker pretends none of it matters. Aaliah pretends everything still does.
And me? I sit at my desk and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the hum that used to fill the air. It doesn't come, but sometimes, if I listen hard enough, I swear I can hear the world buzzing instead — the planet holding its breath before the next collapse.
Three days ago, Sentinel broadcast a public message:
"Harbinger activity detected in multiple regions. Stay indoors if possible. Report all unauthorized meta usage."
They're losing control. When an organization built on fear starts to sound afraid, that's how you know something's wrong.
Melanie called last night using a scrambled number. She said Sentinel's been moving resources — evacuating certain research facilities, rerouting energy grids around the Echelon Core site.
"They're preparing for something," she said. "Another containment event?" I asked." No. A war."
The line cut off before I could ask who started it.
This morning, during breakfast, the news showed footage from New York — a battle between a rogue meta and two Sentinel operatives. The fight lit up half the skyline. The anchor's voice cracked, trying to sound composed.
Booker muttered, "That used to be Dad's job." Mom didn't answer.
I pushed my plate away. The sound of the forks on the ceramic was unbearable.
By the afternoon, the air outside had that pre-storm feeling — dense, metallic, waiting. I walked downtown again, half to clear my head, half because I didn't know where else to be.
From a distance, I could see a Sentinel convoy parked near the courthouse — black vehicles, drone escorts, the kind that only show up when something bad just happened or is about to. A crowd had gathered — protestors on one side, loyalists on the other. Someone shouted. Someone threw a bottle. The crack of a stun round followed.
I backed away fast, pulse in my throat. The world's breaking faster than I can heal.
When I got home, the rain had started again. The same soft drizzle that always seemed to find me when I needed to feel something real.
Mom was in the kitchen, watching the news on low volume. She didn't notice me. The screen showed a Sentinel press conference — Director Cecelia standing behind a podium, face calm in that terrifying, rehearsed way.
"We will not tolerate anarchy," she said. "Sentinel Solutions exists to protect humanity from forces beyond its control. That mission remains absolute."
Behind her, a holographic display flickered — the faint, unmistakable outline of the Echelon Core.
Even without power, I could feel it. The hair on my arms stood up. My chest ached with a ghost of resonance.
The Core wasn't just awake. It was responding. Not to me — to the world.
That night, I lay in bed, the rain tapping the window like it had something to say. In the dark, my thoughts drifted back to that final flash before the Nexus was taken — that weightless instant when light and sound stopped existing, and everything made sense for half a heartbeat. I thought I'd lost that connection forever. But now, I wasn't sure.
Maybe it's still out there, listening. Maybe it feels the same storm coming that I do.
And maybe — if the world keeps pushing itself toward collapse — it won't stay silent forever