POV I — JANET MORRISON
Janet Morrison was counting heads when the man's hands started smoking.
At first, she thought it was dust shaken loose from the warehouse ceiling. The building had taken damage when they landed—twisted beams, cracked concrete, half the roof gone.
Then she smelled heat.
"Paul," someone said carefully. "Your hands."
Paul looked down.
Thin threads of smoke curled from his palms. No flame yet. Just heat bleeding out into the air.
"I don't feel burned," he said. His voice shook. "It's hot, but it's not hurting me."
Janet stood immediately.
"Everyone step back," she said.
No one did.
They leaned closer instead, eyes wide, bodies tense. Fear hadn't settled yet. It was still searching for shape.
Paul flexed his fingers.
The smoke thickened. The air shimmered.
A small flame flickered between his fingers.
That's when people screamed.
"PUT IT OUT."
"GET AWAY FROM HIM."
"HE'S GOING TO BURN US ALIVE."
Paul panicked.
The flame surged higher.
Janet moved before anyone else could.
She stepped directly into his space and locked eyes with him.
"Paul," she said firmly. "Look at me. Not your hands."
He hesitated, then did.
"Good," she said. "Now breathe out. Slow."
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can. Out. Longer than in."
His breath stuttered, then followed her rhythm.
The flame shrank. Smoke thinned. Heat faded until only warm air remained.
Silence fell.
Janet exhaled.
Then she saw the looks.
Not relief.
Assessment.
A man near the back spoke quietly. "If he can do that… what else can he do?"
Another voice followed. "What if it gets worse?"
Paul heard them. His shoulders tightened.
Janet felt something cold settle in her stomach.
She had seen this before.
Not fire — imbalance.
After floods, it was the guy with the gun.
After riots, the one who organized food.
After blackouts, the person who could control the generator.
The moment someone became different, the group stopped seeing them as a person.
They became a problem to solve.
"He hasn't hurt anyone," Janet said.
"Yet," someone replied.
Paul's hands trembled again, heat threatening to return.
Janet stepped closer and lowered her voice. "You're not dangerous," she said. "You're just early."
That didn't comfort him.
Early meant alone.
Janet turned to the group. "We move at first light. Paul stays with me."
"Why?" Paul asked.
Janet met his eyes. "Because when fear settles, people stop reacting."
"And start planning."
No one argued.
Not because they agreed.
Because they were already doing it.
POV II — CAPTAIN ROSA MARTINEZ
Captain Rosa Martinez had already decided what to do before the lightning arced across the street.
They were holed up inside a collapsed parking structure—forty-two people, mostly adults, some injured, all exhausted. The city around them had changed beyond recognition. Streets buckled. Buildings warped. The air tasted metallic.
Order was thin. But it existed.
Until the man raised his hand.
The bolt came down fast. White-blue. Controlled.
It punched a hole clean through the burned-out shell of a bus twenty meters away.
No one screamed.
That was worse.
They stared at him.
Rosa stepped forward, boots crunching glass. "Name."
The man flinched. "Eli."
"Can you do that again?"
"Yes," he said. Then, quieter, "I think."
Rosa nodded once.
She turned to the group. "Everyone saw that. Good. That means no surprises."
Someone whispered, "She's not scared."
Rosa heard it and didn't correct them.
Fear was useless if it wasn't directed.
"Eli," she said, "you're with me now."
His eyes widened. "I didn't mean to—"
"I don't care," Rosa said. "Intent comes after control."
She pointed to three people. "You. You. You. Security perimeter."
Then two more. "Medical."
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
People moved because she gave them something fear couldn't: structure.
Eli followed her, hands shaking.
"You're not in trouble," she said as they walked. "But you're not free either."
He swallowed. "What am I?"
Rosa stopped and looked at him.
"You're a force multiplier," she said. "And forces get managed."
She looked back at the group.
Some people watched Eli with awe.
Others with resentment.
She catalogued faces.
Later, she would separate them.
This world wasn't producing miracles.
It was producing weapons.
And Rosa had no intention of letting hers turn sideways.