Dante Vazquez was the only Zero in existence.
The weight of that truth sat heavily on his shoulders, pressing down like an invisible force. But it wasn't a Gift—not some supernatural ability dictating the course of his life. No, it was simply the reality of who he was. Or rather, what he wasn't.
He sat in the back of the classroom, his head down, fingers idly tracing patterns on his desk, pretending not to hear the whispered taunts swirling around him.
"How does it feel to be the only one without a Gift?"
"I heard they checked him three times. Nothing. Not even a flicker."
"Dude, even my grandma has a Gift. That's just sad."
The voices, hushed but deliberate, wrapped around him like chains.
Dante clenched his fists under the desk but kept his expression neutral. He had learned long ago that reacting only gave them what they wanted. Attention. Satisfaction. Power.
They weren't wrong, after all.
Three years ago, everything changed.
It was called the Awakening—a global phenomenon that rewrote the fabric of existence. Every teenager on Earth, without exception, awakened a Gift on their fourteenth birthday. Fire. Water. Lightning. Gravity. Psyion. The list stretched infinitely, abilities that defied reason and science, becoming the new norm overnight.
Everyone had something.
Everyone but him.
Dante still remembered his fourteenth birthday.
He had sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands, waiting for something to happen. A glow, a spark, a feeling deep in his chest. A whisper of power.
Anything.
His parents had hovered in the doorway, watching expectantly, his mother clutching a camera in her hands. They had already celebrated his sister's Awakening a year prior—Alyssa, the family's golden child, who had received a rare form of energy manipulation. Their mother had cried tears of joy, their father had called every relative they had, and the house had erupted into an impromptu party.
But when Dante's turn came…
Nothing.
The clock struck midnight, and the silence in his room stretched unbearably.
His mother's grip tightened on the camera, her fingers trembling slightly. His father checked his watch, muttering something under his breath.
His sister sat on his bed, wide-eyed, as if expecting him to suddenly burst into flames or lift the furniture with his mind.
But the minutes ticked by.
One minute.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Nothing.
"Dante?" his mother had whispered, a forced smile on her face. "Do you feel anything?"
He had tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat.
He had felt cold. Empty.
His father cleared his throat. "Maybe it's just late. We'll check again in the morning."
Morning came. More waiting. More silence.
Doctors ran tests. Injected him with diagnostic serums. Scanned him with equipment designed to register even the faintest hint of ability.
"Your son is just a late bloomer," they told his parents. "His Gift might manifest in a unique way. Some Gifts remain dormant until the right trigger."
So he waited.
Fourteen became fifteen.
Then sixteen.
And still, nothing.
Finally, the doctors ran their final tests and gave their final verdict.
"Your son is what we classify as a Zero."
The words had stuck with him, haunting him like an unshakable shadow.
A Zero.
The only one.
It wasn't just that he lacked a Gift. It was that everyone else had been given something—a piece of the future—while he had been left behind.
---
Now, every day felt like an uphill battle against the inevitable, against the way people looked at him—like he was a relic, a mistake, an anomaly that didn't belong.
The bell rang, snapping Dante out of his thoughts.
Around him, his classmates rushed to leave, shoving past him as if he were nothing more than an obstacle in their path. They moved with purpose, with confidence, with an understanding that the world had room for them. That they belonged.
Dante took his time packing his things, waiting until the room was empty before he stood. It was easier that way. No rushed conversations. No sideways glances. No whispered mockery just loud enough for him to hear.
Just silence.
Or at least, that's what he thought.
A voice shattered the moment.
"Hey, Zero."
Dante exhaled slowly, gripping the strap of his backpack tighter.
He didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
Zane Mercer.
Fire Gifted. Team captain. All-around asshole.
Dante kept his expression blank and walked toward the door, willing himself to ignore the bait.
But Zane wasn't done.
"Come on, don't be rude."
A shadow fell across Dante's path as Zane stepped in front of him, smirking down at him. His fingers twitched, and heat flickered around them—a casual show of power, a reminder of what Dante didn't have.
"It's not every day we get to see a living relic," Zane mused, voice dripping with amusement.
Dante shifted, trying to step around him, but Zane's arm shot out, blocking his path. The heat radiating from his skin made the air shimmer.
"You know, I was thinking," Zane continued, "maybe the reason you're a Zero is because you're just not trying hard enough."
Dante said nothing.
But Zane wasn't looking for a response.
He was looking for a reaction.
"Maybe," Zane mused, his flames sparking higher, licking at his palm, "you just need a little push."
Dante's muscles tensed.
He saw where this was going.
Zane wanted him to flinch, to back away, to show fear.
Dante didn't give him the satisfaction.
Instead, he looked Zane dead in the eye and said, "Do it."
The fire wavered.
For a split second, Zane hesitated.
Dante didn't know why. Maybe he had expected Dante to beg. To run. Maybe he had never actually planned to go through with it.
Whatever the reason, Dante took his chance.
He stepped past Zane, shoving the taller boy's arm aside, and walked away without another word.
This time, Zane let him go.
But as soon as Dante stepped outside the school doors, an unease crept over him.
---
The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the pavement. The campus had mostly cleared out, students eager to return home or gather in groups to show off their abilities, to revel in the gifts the world had given them.
Dante, as always, walked alone.
And yet…
He wasn't alone.
He could feel it—an itch at the back of his neck, a prickle of awareness that sent a slow chill through his spine.
Someone was watching him.
His steps slowed.
He turned his head slightly, scanning the area with casual precision, his gaze flickering across the nearby trees, the rooftops, the parked cars lining the street.
Nothing.
But the feeling remained.
Dante adjusted the strap of his backpack, forcing himself to keep walking, to act like nothing was wrong.
Paranoia wasn't new to him.
But this felt different.
This wasn't the usual whisper of gossip in the halls.
This wasn't Zane's smug taunts.
This was something else.
Dante's heart beat a little faster.
Someone, somewhere, was watching him.
And they weren't just watching.
They were waiting.