Some days, I wake up and forget that the world's falling apart. Then the morning news reminds me.
The anchors talk like they're tired of hearing their own voices. "Another clash between powered individuals downtown," one of them says. "Authorities report minimal civilian casualties."Minimal. That's supposed to be good news now.
The world's not at war, but it's not at peace either. It's… stuck. Heroes and villains fighting just enough to stay angry, never enough to win. It's like the planet's holding its breath, waiting for something to finally snap.
I sit at my desk, backpack half-zipped, staring at a pencil that doesn't want to write. It's Saturday, but I'm working ahead — mostly to keep my hands busy. When I close my eyes, I still see the containment room. When I open them, I see the news. Both are cages, just different shapes.
Mom's already left for her shift. Booker's at practice. Aaliah's probably still asleep. The house creaks in that slow, heavy way old homes do when it's quiet — like it's trying to keep itself from thinking too hard.
Outside, the sky looks washed out — the kind of color that makes you wonder if the sun's even trying anymore.
At school, everything feels the same but somehow different. The metal detectors they added last month make the entrance look like an airport. The line moves slowly, and everyone avoids eye contact with the Sentinel drones hovering near the gate. They scan every student, every bag, every sigh.
Inside, no one talks about it directly, but everyone feels it. The hall TVs replay hero fights on silent loops. No one stops to watch anymore. You'd think seeing people throw cars and fireballs would be exciting, but now it's background noise — just another day.
In History, Mr. Garza's lesson is supposed to be about World War II, but halfway through, he stops and sighs."Anyone else feel like we're watching a sequel?" he asks. A few kids laugh. Not because it's funny, but because it's too true.
Lunch isn't much better. The usual table feels smaller, like everyone's sitting closer without realizing it . Malique's on about how Sentinel's "protecting" people by locking down half the coast, and Ski argues that at least the Harbingers are honest about wanting control. I just pick at my fries and stare at the cracks in the table.
Then the courtyard TV flickers on. The news plays another report — some fight in Spain, another in South Korea. No casualties this time. That's the new headline template. Sariya's sitting across from me. She glances up at the screen, then back at me.
"Every week it's something new," she says softly."Yeah," I mutter. "And nothing changes."
"You think it'll get better?"I shrug. "I think it'll stop pretending to be okay."
She doesn't argue. She just nods, the wind catching her hair as the drones hum overhead. For a second, the world almost feels normal again. Then the intercom crackles and ruins it.
"Attention students: Sentinel Solutions will be conducting a safety demonstration in partnership with our school. Please remain in your classes after the last period."
No cheers, one even groans. We all just look at each other like, Of course they are.
When the final bell rings, I don't stick around for their "demonstration."I take the long route home — cutting through the coastal path that overlooks the harbor. You can see the city from up here. It's beautiful in that way broken things sometimes are.
There's smoke rising near the industrial district. Not much, just a thin line that blends into the clouds. Probably another "small incident." They've been happening more — metas getting reckless, Sentinel chasing them, nobody winning.
Down by the pier, a billboard flashes a new Sentinel slogan:
"Keeping Tomorrow Safe."
Funny how every time someone says that, today feels a little less safe.
At home, the air feels heavy.Mom's back — she's cooking something that smells good but sounds tired. The TV's on low volume in the background:
"Global talks between Sentinel Solutions and The Vanguard remain unresolved. Both parties have confirmed an informal ceasefire while negotiations continue…"
Aaliah's doing homework at the table. Booker's scrolling through highlight reels on his phone. It's weird how people can pretend to be normal when the world's cracking open . I guess pretending's the only way to keep from falling in.
Mom looks up when she hears me. "You're hhomErl ."Yeah. They were doing Sentinel PR at school again."She exhales, muttering something under her breath that sounds like, "Of course they were."
Booker glances up. "You see the fight in Seattle?" Another one?"Yeah. Sentinel claimed it was a Harbinger raid. The Harbingers said it was a rescue mission."Aaliah rolls her eyes. "So, neither side's lying, but both are."
Mom sets down her spoon and says, "That's enough hero talk at the table."No one argues. The silence that follows is familiar — the kind you learn to live with.
Later that night, I sit by my window and watch the rain come in. The droplets trace the glass like they're racing to disappear first. Far off, a police siren echoes — one of the long, tired ones that sound more like warnings than alarms.
I think about the Nexus sometimes. Not the power — the presence. The way it filled the space around me made the world feel connected. Now, it's just… quiet. I know it's still out there, locked up somewhere deep inside Sentinel.Thinking.Waiting.
Maybe that's why the air feels heavier lately — not because the world's falling apart, but because it's trying to hold itself together without the thing that once bound it.
I write in my journal before bed, pen scratching across paper:
Everyone's still fighting. They just forgot what they're fighting for. Heroes, villains, governments — they all keep saying it's about peace, but maybe peace doesn't sell anymore.
I stop, stare at the words, then add underneath:
The world's a room full of static. And even without the Nexus, I can still hear it.
I close the journal, lean back, and listen to the rain until it drowns the rest out.