The sharp screech of the metro at Fenwick’s Crossing Station jolted me from my thoughts, slicing through the air like a cold, unwelcome gust. The automated voice crackled over the speakers, announcing the station with the flat indifference of a machine, as the doors slid open with a hiss. People surged in and out with mechanical precision, racing for the vanishing space as if their survival depended on it. Just another day in the tangled maze of humanity—each moment a scramble before it slips away.

There was a rhythm to it, almost hypnotic. A controlled chaos, as though the commuters were performers in a well-rehearsed play where no one ever gets the lead role, but everyone’s part is essential. Phones glued to their faces, bags slung over their shoulders—each person locked in their own little world, oblivious to the hundred others they bumped into without apology. It was like watching a herd of cattle push forward, driven by some invisible need to reach the other side. The guy in the wrinkled suit was my favorite—sweat glistening on his brow as he darted between passengers like a desperate game of Frogger. His eyes were fixed on one thing: an empty seat. His personal holy grail. The desperation was almost… inspiring.

I couldn’t help but smirk. Nothing quite like public transportation to remind you that, beneath the surface, we’re all just animals. Herd creatures, moving in predictable patterns, searching for a moment of comfort before the doors close and we’re packed in like sardines for the ride. Funny thing is, most people never realize just how synchronized they are. It’s a silent dance. Everyone driven by the same basic needs—to sit, to get from point A to point B, to avoid eye contact at all costs.

As much as I liked to observe the madness from my little corner of smugness, I had to admit the metro had its perks. Convenience was at the top of the list. It was reliable. And down here? It felt safer—at least you weren’t dodging flying buses. After seeing enough buses turned to scrap in superhero brawls, you start appreciating the stability of being underground. Heroes love to zip around the city at speeds that make your head spin, dodging cars and buildings like they’re in some high-stakes video game. But for me, the metro was a different kind of freedom—grounded, predictable, uncomplicated.

There’s a peace down here, in the clatter of the wheels on the track. Up top, you’re never more than a few seconds away from a building being torn apart or some hero turning a traffic jam into a demolition derby. But down here, it’s just the gentle hum of life moving forward. It’s the little things, you know?

I scanned the seats, and by some miracle, found an open window seat waiting for me. Jackpot. I snagged it without hesitation, ignoring whatever mystery stains it might be hiding. One battle at a time. The thought of standing for the ride wasn’t exactly appealing, especially when I had the chance to zone out by the window.

The train lurched forward, its rhythm settling into that familiar, comforting cadence. I leaned back against the cool glass, letting it press into my temple as the vibrations hummed through me. People ask why I don’t fly or teleport like the others.

“Why waste time on the metro, Dave?” they say. “You could be there in seconds.” Sounds simple. It’s not.

To most people, it probably looks like I’m moving so fast I just vanish—here one second, gone the next. No blur, no streak of light, no whooshing sound effects. Just gone. If you’re lucky enough to have super perception, like some of the Big Ten, you might catch a flicker when I move. But even then, good luck tracking me. To them, it’s like I’m ripping through space, breaking every rule of physics. But to me? Fast doesn’t even come close.

It’s the opposite of fast, actually. I remember telling Alan about it once, back when he was knee-deep in grad school, and we had one of those late-night philosophical chats that only seem to happen when you’ve had too much pizza. He had that look on his face, the one he gets when he thinks he’s about to solve some unsolvable puzzle.

“If you’re moving that fast,” he said, “there should be shockwaves, energy trails—some kind of ripple effect, right?”

He sounded way more intelligent than I’m putting it. Alan had this habit of diving deep into technical jargon, trying to impress with the big words, but when he saw me staring blankly back at him, he’d sigh and switch to the For Dummies version.

I told him what it’s really like—how everything just… stops. Time, motion, everything. It’s like stepping into a world of statues—people, cars, birds, all frozen mid-action, and I’m the only one who can move. I’d stroll through the scene, taking my time. No rush, no urgency. Then, when I’d get where I needed to go, everything snapped back into place, picking up exactly where it left off. Like nothing ever happened.

Alan’s eyes lit up, the way they always did when he was piecing together a puzzle.

“What if,” he said, his voice dropping like he’d just stumbled onto some great cosmic truth, “you’re not speeding up at all? Maybe… you’re slowing everything else down.”

I could see the gears turning in his head, his mind racing through the possibilities. But for me? It wasn’t about the science. Maybe he was right, maybe that’s what was happening on some theoretical level. But that wasn’t what I felt. It wasn’t about the mechanics of it all—it was about the stillness. The eerie, unnatural quiet of being the only one left moving. No rush, no thrill, just… emptiness.

Alan had his theories and equations, his need to make sense of it all. But for me, something else gnawed at the edges of my mind—something no equation could solve.

Loneliness.

People just assume that if you’ve got powers, you’re out there racing through the streets or cutting through the clouds, like you’re in some action flick. You know the type—flashy, fast, always ready to leap into the spotlight. They’ve got their faces plastered on billboards, their names on energy drinks, hell, some of them even have their own shoe line. It’s like they’re auditioning for the role of World’s Greatest Hero in some kind of reality TV show.

I shook the thought off, letting out a small sigh as the train rattled along, its dull hum filling the silence. I glanced around at the passengers, most of them lost in their own little worlds. Some stared blankly at their phones, others drifted in and out of sleep, heads nodding to the rhythm of the ride. It was strange, really—how none of them seemed to realize the bizarre city they lived in. Zenith City, home of superhumans and catastrophic battles, and here they were, going about their daily lives like it was just another weekday.

But that’s the thing. People see what they want to see. They get used to the weirdness, the chaos, until it’s all just background noise.

I leaned back against the window, the vibrations of the train running through me, lulling me into a strange sense of calm. It was that kind of peaceful hum that makes you forget you’re moving at all, like the world outside has gone still and you’re the only one in motion. And then, as if the world itself had pulled back a curtain, the darkness peeled away.

The metro shot out of the tunnel, and the sprawling skyline of Zenith City opened up in front of me, towers of glass and steel glittering under the midday sun. Buildings soared toward the sky like a forest of metal giants, their reflective surfaces flickering with flashes of gold and silver. A few of the towers still bore scars—burn marks from old battles, hastily repaired walls, shattered windows that had long since been replaced. Yet they stood resilient, like defiant sentinels, towering over the streets and silently watching over the city’s endless chaos.

Zenith always had a way of making you feel small. The constant noise, the towering skyscrapers, the traffic jams that stretched for miles, and the heroes soaring high above—it was all designed to remind you that you were just another cog in the machine. But for all that noise, all that power, there was still a kind of quiet in the skyline. A stillness that made you feel insignificant, like an ant crawling through a maze of steel and glass.

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The city carried its scars, each one a testament to battles fought and hardships endured. But none were as haunting as the one waiting just beyond the curve.

And then, it came into view—the Crater.

A massive chasm carved into the city’s heart, a scar left from the cataclysm years ago. Even now, with nature slowly creeping in, it still looked like an open wound—a constant reminder of Zenith’s darkest days. It dominated the landscape, impossible to miss, a gaping void as if some enormous force had torn through the city’s core and left behind a wound that had never fully healed.

The train hugged the edge of the abyss, and for a moment, it felt like we were floating above it. Below, jagged rock formations lined the crater’s massive maw, their sharp edges casting long shadows that stretched across the depths. Crumbling remnants of old buildings littered the edges like forgotten toys, abandoned after the catastrophe. Structures that once stood tall and proud had been reduced to little more than broken shells—ghosts of a city that had fought for survival.

Skyscrapers leaned in from the rim of the Crater, their mirrored windows reflecting both the sky above and the devastation below. It was a surreal sight—progress and destruction woven together in a strange, almost delicate balance. Zenith City was clawing its way back, rebuilding piece by piece—but the scars of the past wouldn’t be erased, no matter how high the new towers rose.

At the center was Meridian Falls, where the river split—one half flowing gently through the city, the other crashing sharply over the crater’s jagged edge and plunging down into the abyss. The water crashed against the rocks far below, filling the air with a thunderous roar that you could almost feel through the glass of the train window. It was a sound that never left, a constant rumble echoing off the walls of the chasm. Mist rose from the base of the falls, swirling and merging with the fog that seemed to permanently hover over the crater, like a shroud protecting the secrets it held.

There was something otherworldly about it, the way the sunlight pierced through the mist, casting shimmering rainbows over the water as it descended into the darkness below. A splash of beauty in a place born from chaos, as if nature itself was trying to reclaim the land, slowly, layer by layer, with each new bloom of green that dared to take root in the ruins.

I couldn’t help but stare. Even after all these years, the Crater still managed to take my breath away. There was something raw and unfiltered about it, like staring into the soul of the city itself, laid bare and exposed, still trying to heal from the wounds of the past. The Crater wasn’t just a landmark. It was a symbol. A monument to the fragility of everything we take for granted. A reminder that no matter how invincible we think we are, there are forces greater than any of us—forces that can tear down even the strongest walls, leaving nothing but dust in their wake.

I’ve heard people call the Crater a testament to survival, to resilience, and maybe that’s true. But for me, it was something else. A warning. A reminder of how fragile all of this really is. How quickly it can all fall apart, no matter how hard we fight to keep it standing. One day, everything’s fine, and the next, it’s gone, swallowed by the earth itself.

First Light Memorial Park sat near the center of the Crater, a patch of green amidst the wreckage, like an oasis in the middle of the desert. It was a tribute to the first responders and the superhumans who had fought to save Zenith City during the cataclysm. Their statues stood tall like guardians over the ruins, immortalized in bronze and stone, their faces locked in determination. From up here, the park looked peaceful, serene, even. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that beneath that calm surface, there was something else—something lurking in the shadows of history.

Above the park, The Eye of Zenith observation deck jutted out over the edge, its glass floor giving tourists and locals a front-row seat to the abyss. I could see the tiny figures from here, leaning over the railings, their faces small and wide-eyed, filled with awe, maybe even fear. They gazed down into the abyss, probably wondering what it must’ve been like when the world came crashing down around them all those years ago. Did they feel relief? Gratitude that they hadn’t been here when it all happened? Or did they feel the weight of the tragedy, pressing down on them as they looked into the heart of the city’s destruction?

But the city wasn’t content to leave the Crater as a mere memorial to the past. There were signs of life, of renewal. Along the outer edges of the Crater, construction drones hovered like mechanical bees, laying the groundwork for new developments. I watched as they methodically laid out foundations for what would one day be gleaming high-rises, luxury apartments, and offices. The drones worked tirelessly, layer by layer, using their 3D printers to build the future from the rubble of the past. It was progress, sure, but it also felt… inevitable. Like the city was trying to cover up the scar, to move on, but the Crater wouldn’t let it. Not yet.

The train slowed, giving me a few extra moments to soak it all in. The Crater wasn’t just a place. It was history. It was pain, sacrifice, and rebirth, all wrapped into one. And now, slowly but surely, it was being reclaimed—by nature, by the city, by time. Trees and shrubs clung to the jagged edges of the rock, defiant in their survival. Every year, the city made a little more progress. Every year, the Crater looked a little less like an open wound and more like a scar. But scars don’t fade entirely. They stay with you, etched into your skin, a permanent reminder of what was lost—and what can never be fully regained.

“Just another day,” I muttered under my breath, though I knew it was more than that. The view was always the same, yet somehow, it felt different every time. Maybe it was the way the sunlight filtered through the mist, or the way the shadows danced across the broken landscape. Or maybe it was just a reminder that no matter how many times I looked, I’d never truly understand what it all meant.

The train curved away from the edge, the glittering skyline of Zenith City sliding back into view, blocking out the Crater. But for those fleeting moments, it had felt like standing at the edge of the world—one breath away from falling into the unknown.

I pulled out my phone to check the directions to Alan’s place. The Heights, of course. Edith had scribbled the address on a crumpled scrap of paper earlier that morning. I could already picture him up there in his fancy high-rise, sipping some overpriced organic tea while looking down at the rest of us peasants. Probably has a fridge that sends him motivational quotes every morning. Yeah, that sounds like Alan.

Meanwhile, I was making soap.

Not that I’m complaining. Soap’s honest work, and it pays the bills. But every time I thought about Alan, it’s like stepping in front of a mirror that reflects back all the things I could’ve been doing with my life. Not a fun mirror, more like one of those carnival ones that distorts your face—except instead of your face, it distorts your entire life.

I could practically hear Alan’s voice echoing in my head, like a broken record: “Dave, you’re wasting your potential. You could be doing so much more with your abilities.” He’d said it so many times, it was almost background noise by now. Yeah, well, potential’s overrated, Alan. Besides, if I really wanted to, I could look down at the rest of the city from my own high-rise and feel superior… but then who’d make the soap?

The train jerked to a stop at the next station. People shuffled off, others shoved their way on. I glanced around at the crowd, at the faces of people lost in their own little worlds. I wondered if they had any clue who—or what—was sitting next to them. Probably not. People see what they want to see.

Then, the train slowed again. A soft chime rang out, announcing the arrival at The Heights Station. I could feel the shift in the air even before the doors slid open. This place was different. It always was. The Heights—where wealth wasn’t just a way of life, it was practically a scent in the air. Everything here gleamed: polished marble floors, manicured plants, soft lighting that never flickered. This was where the elite lived, wrapped in their bubble of perfection, untouched by the chaos the rest of the city had to deal with.

Every time I’d passed through this station, it was immaculate—barely a scuff mark on the tiles, not a single piece of litter in sight. You could practically see your reflection in the walls, and the people? They walked like they owned the place—because, well, they probably did. I didn’t come up here often—too much of that rich-people utopia vibe for my taste. There’s only so long I can stand it before I need to retreat back to my cozy apartment and detox. But today was different. Since I was already here, maybe I’d play tourist for a bit, kill some time while I waited for Alan to get back from the lab.

The train halted smoothly, more graceful than earlier stops, as the doors slid open with practiced precision. The cool, conditioned air swept in, carrying the faint scent of expensive perfume and freshly polished floors. Everything here gleamed—the walls, the floors, even the people, like they’d been spit-shined before stepping out into the world.

And then, just as I stepped off the train, reality hit me all at once.