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  Friday, September 23rd, 2253.

  10:12 AM – (67 Hours: 28 mins remain)

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  In the early days, Nexus was chaos incarnate: scattered refugee settlements clinging to survival in the wilderness, each one on the edge of disaster. The pce that would grow into Prima City had begun as a rare isnd of safety, its powerful barrier drawing desperate souls to shelter inside its reach.

  As the years passed, that barrier crept outward, swallowing nd and vilges, stitching them into what would become the Outskirts districts.

  District 11, known as the Crossroads, had earned its name for good reason. Its streets sprawled out from the meeting point of all the major roads linking Prima’s western districts — a nexus within Nexus.

  Now, as Jeremiah turned onto Market Street, the Crossroads’ faded glory was impossible to ignore. Boarded-up windows and rotting facades lined the block, the skeletons of abandoned shops standing shoulder to shoulder. Only a handful of businesses still held on, their battered signs or sputtering lights hinting at life behind the grime.

  He stopped at the corner, frowning, then gnced back over his shoulder at the boy trailing after him.

  Mani fshed a mischievous grin from behind his oversized scarf. “See? What’d I tell you?” he crowed. “You’ve got your pick of any building here. And I know the guy you want to talk to — come on!”

  Before Jeremiah could muster a reply, Mani darted ahead, weaving through a patch of sunlight that filtered between the crumbling awnings. This wasn’t quite what Jeremiah had imagined… but he couldn’t say Mani had misled him. There really were empty buildings everywhere. Yet, despite the Crossroads’ rundown state, a surprising number of people still moved along the street. Enough to suggest hope wasn’t entirely dead here.

  Jeremiah sighed and followed, catching wary gnces from several passersby. Strange, considering that in the Crossroads, minding your own business was practically a w.

  They rounded another corner. Mani crouched behind a rusted old mailbox, eyes wide, peeking over the edge. Jeremiah joined him, kneeling down with a bemused look. “What are you staring at?”

  Mani snapped his gaze to Jeremiah and yanked him lower. “Get down, you idiot!” he hissed. Taken aback, Jeremiah obeyed, peering across the street to follow Mani’s line of sight.

  Opposite them stood a small brick building, neat and sturdy among its ruined neighbors. Its wide gss window gleamed, spotless, and above the door hung a hand-painted sign: Gj?ll Bakery. In bold script beneath, the promise: pastries that could raise the dead.

  Jeremiah arched an eyebrow. He’d heard of cake to die for, but never pastries so good they might bring you back. Then again, options in the Crossroads were limited. Maybe a little bravado was exactly what the neighborhood needed.

  Jeremiah peered through the bakery window. Even from across the street, he could make out several shadowy figures moving inside, their shapes distorted by the grime and poor lighting. The details were lost to darkness, but the sharp, exaggerated gestures and the muffled shouts leaking through the gss left no doubt. A confrontation was brewing.

  His suspicion was confirmed a heartbeat ter. A young man suddenly crashed through the front window, the gss shattering with a sharp, musical rain. He tumbled out onto the pavement, nding hard and rolling to a stop in the middle of the street, where he y sprawled and motionless.

  A split second ter, the bakery’s front door was flung open, banging against the wall as three more thuggish figures stumbled out in a tangle of limbs. Their flight was cut short as something inside the shop hurled them forward, sending them skidding and tumbling over the broken gss.

  Groaning and dazed, the thugs barely had time to collect themselves before a new figure stepped out onto the sidewalk — a towering presence who seemed to fill the bakery’s doorway. He had to duck to fit beneath the lintel, his massive frame dwarfing even Mr. Roger’s bulk. Jeremiah guessed he stood at least eight feet tall, his immense size hinting at giant’s blood somewhere in his lineage. A rare trait, even for Nexus.

  The newcomer’s thick, golden-blond hair was woven into intricate braids, and his cropped beard glinted almost metallic in the morning sun. Despite his fearsome build, he wore a flour-dusted apron, two sizes too small, stretched across his chest. In bold, pyful lettering, it read ‘Hey there, cookie.’ The effect was almost comical, but the man’s icy blue eyes made it clear he wasn’t to be trifled with.

  He glowered down at the groaning thugs, arms folded, voice rumbling with contempt. “Tell your ‘Oddfather’ he’s not welcome here. I don’t care who he thinks he is. The Gj?ll’s mine, and I won’t have him barging in, demanding anything. Got it?” His accent was thick and heavy, but the scorn in his tone needed no transtion.

  One of the thugs managed to stagger upright, fixing the giant with a venomous gre. “Don’t get cocky, Ulrick! Big Red’s not around to protect you anymore. The Oddfather’s taking over the Crossroads, when he does, you’ll wish you’d listened.”

  Ulrick just threw his head back and ughed, the sound booming off the nearby buildings. “I never needed the old demon to keep me safe, and I sure as hell don’t now. If that fool wants my bakery, he can come try to take it himself. I’ve heard his empty threats for years.”

  Then, in a quieter tone, the giant looked down at the battered young man. “You should take your own advice, Jonny. Get away from that man while you still can.”

  Jonny’s gre hardened. He didn’t bother replying, just hauled one of his dazed companions to his feet. “Come on! Get moving!” His voice was tight with pain and pride. The injured men gathered themselves, limping away in defeat.

  Ulrick watched them go, his massive chest rising and falling with a heavy sigh. He turned back to his bakery, pausing just before the broken window. For a moment, he frowned, his broad shoulders sagging. Then, with a snap of his flour-dusted fingers, the shards of gss scattered across the street began to twitch. One by one, they rose and spun through the air, spiraling back toward the frame. The gss slid into pce with a shimmering hum, repairing itself as if time were flowing backward. In a heartbeat, the storefront looked untouched.

  Jeremiah blinked, momentarily forgetting to breathe. A mage? Here? In the Outskirts? Running a bakery, of all things? The sight sent a ripple of unease through him. Nexus was a pce where strange things were a part of life, but that was something beyond.

  But now wasn’t the time to stare or get caught gawking. Those thugs might be looking for someone to take out their frustration on, and with Mani here, Jeremiah couldn’t risk it.

  Before he could say anything, a small, incredulous voice piped up nearby. “Wow… that was some of the most cliché thug-speak I’ve ever heard. And I know a lot of thugs.” Jeremiah nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around — and there was Mero, perched atop the rusty mailbox, munching from a bowl of popcorn as if watching a street performance.

  Jeremiah shot him a panicked gre and hissed under his breath, “Keep it down, you idiot! And where did you even come from?!”

  A voice barked behind him. “Hey! Who the hell you calling an idiot, you scrawny prick?”

  Jeremiah spun around again to find Jonny and his crew gring at him from across the street. In the short distraction, the thugs had crossed over, and now Jonny was stomping closer, his anger pin as day. Instinctively, Jeremiah leaned toward Mani to warn him, only to see the kid already halfway down the block, sprinting for his life.

  Jeremiah turned and lifted his hands, palms open, trying to defuse things before they got worse. “Look, fels, I don’t want any trouble. I wasn’t talking to you. How about we just forget all this and move on, yeah?”

  Jonny ughed, spreading his arms and gncing theatrically around the now-empty street as he advanced. “No trouble, huh? Then who the hell were you talking to? ’Cause I don’t see anyone else around here.”

  Jeremiah’s gaze darted to the mailbox, only to find it empty. Mero had vanished as suddenly as he’d appeared. The street was deserted. He was alone, with four angry men closing in.

  That bastard Mero! What the hell is he trying to do?!

  Jeremiah’s thoughts spiraled in panic, but he forced a nervous smile at Jonny. “Look, there’s been a misunderstanding here. No one needs to get hurt, okay?” He spoke calmly, his hands raised, but slowly started lowering them, edging his fingers closer to the switchbde hidden in his pocket. If he could just reach it...

  Jonny jerked a thumb at Jeremiah and turned to his men, barking out a ugh. “No one needs to get hurt, he says. Can you believe this joker? See, boys, this is why we don’t let these scummy shopkeepers push us around! Show an inch of weakness, and the civs start thinking they can disrespect us!”

  He spun in an instant, snarl twisting his lips, and unched a vicious haymaker straight at Jeremiah’s jaw.

  For a split second, time seemed to slow. Jeremiah’s heartbeat thundered in his ears as the world narrowed down to the arc of Jonny’s fist, the flex of his knuckles, the glint of anger in his eyes. But instead of panic, a strange calm settled over Jeremiah. The swing was clumsy — almost sluggish, like someone fighting underwater. All it would take was a tilt, a shift, and the blow would pass harmlessly by.

  And that’s exactly what he did. Jeremiah leaned back, watching the fist sweep by in slow motion. Jonny’s eyes widened in disbelief a moment before Jeremiah’s own fist shot forward, driving into the thug’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

  Jonny crumpled, knocked sideways by the unexpected blow. He sprawled on the gritty pavement, rolling limply until he y motionless in the gutter.

  The other three men gaped in stunned silence, almost as shocked as Jeremiah himself. Sure, he’d taken self-defense csses and even competed in a few martial arts tournaments when he was younger, but he’d never been a prodigy, and he’d certainly never been in a real street fight. So why did this feel so… effortless? Not easy, exactly, but instinctive. Like muscle memory honed in another life.

  He didn’t have time to dwell on the sensation. Another thug, face twisted in fury, lunged at him with a wild punch. But again, everything seemed to slow. The man’s fist telegraphed its path as if Jeremiah had all the time in the world to react.

  He sidestepped, catching the attacker’s wrist and redirecting the blow, then pnted a palm in the center of the man’s back and shoved hard. The thug stumbled, momentum carrying him off-bance, and smmed face-first into the nearby brick wall. There was a sickening crunch, and the man slumped to the ground, unmoving.

  Jeremiah barely had a heartbeat to catch his breath before the next man was upon him, closing the distance like a boxer, one fist shooting forward in a sharp, vicious jab. This one seems more skilled than the second, but his movements were still easy enough to read.

  He’ll tackle me if I try to block, Jeremiah thought, amazed at how his mind broke down the situation with icy crity.

  Instead, Jeremiah shifted his weight forward and stepped into Thug C’s punch, letting the man’s fist whistle past his ear. He brought his knee up in a sharp, practiced motion. Thug C’s own momentum carried him directly into the strike — Jeremiah’s knee smmed into his gut with a dull, meaty thud.

  The man doubled over with a gasp, all the air knocked from his lungs, then crumpled to the ground in a heap, clutching his stomach and groaning.

  Jeremiah stumbled backward, heart pounding in his chest as the world seemed to snap back into focus. The adrenaline crash hit him all at once. Cold sweat broke out across his skin, and his hands trembled as he stared at the three bodies sprawled on the cracked asphalt before him.

  What the hell was that? he thought, staring down at his shaking fists.

  Did I really just take down three street thugs in seconds? How is that even possible?

  His gaze snapped up, locking with the st thug — the one who’d been thrown through the bakery window. The man’s eyes were wild, disbelief etched deep into his face. He took in the scene, gnced at his fallen friends, then spun on his heel and bolted, sprinting down the street as if chased by ghosts.

  Jeremiah drew in a shaky breath, then another, willing his hammering pulse to slow. Whatever just happened, it wasn’t normal. He’d need to have a very serious talk with Mero, and soon.

  Click…Swish.

  The hairs on Jeremiah’s neck prickled as the unmistakable snap of a switchbde echoed across the empty street. He spun around, just in time to see Jonny staggering upright, one hand rubbing his bruised jaw while the other brandished a six-inch serrated knife.

  Jonny’s sneer twisted his battered face. “You think you’re a bigshot, punk? You got no clue who you’re dealing with. You’re the only Gifted on this block.” He waved the bde, eyes burning with desperate rage. “Let’s see how cocky you are when you’re bleeding out on the pavement!”

  Without warning, Jonny unched himself forward. Not just charging, but leaping, knife fshing. The man seemed to blur, crossing the distance in the blink of an eye, the knife aimed straight for Jeremiah’s chest.

  Jeremiah’s pulse spiked. He’s fast. Brute-type, maybe Speed-core, he realized, the world slowing around him again. As the bde hurtled toward him, a memory flickered through Jeremiah’s mind.

  ____

  An old, bald man with a bushy grey beard and a faded, well-worn gi stood before a group of kneeling children. Among them, a ten-year-old Jeremiah sat cross-legged, his eyes wide with curiosity. The old master’s face creased into a warm smile as he looked over his young css.

  “Alright, css. Today, we’re going to talk about defending yourselves. Tell me, if you’re walking down the street and a ruffian jumps out with a knife — or worse — and demands your wallet, what’s the best thing you can do?” the master asked, voice carrying a gentle authority.

  Hands shot up. Children blurted out answers.

  “Kick him in the legs!”

  “Deflect his hand!”

  “Run away!”

  The old master ughed, shaking his head, amused by their eagerness. He turned to a girl seated beside Jeremiah. “How about you, Samantha? What would you do?” he asked, nodding at a ten-year-old Sam. The girl, whom Jeremiah knew would someday become an A+ grade Gifted, flushed with embarrassment and stared at her p. After a moment’s hesitation, she looked up.

  “I… I’d probably just give him my wallet. A wallet can be repced,” she said quietly.

  The old master’s grin grew even wider, and he nodded. “Very good, Samantha. That’s exactly right.” His answer sent a ripple of murmurs through the group. After a moment, an older boy lifted his hand, brow furrowed. The master acknowledged him with a nod.

  The boy stood. “Master, I don’t understand. Aren’t we learning self-defense? Isn’t that just giving the mugger what he wants?”

  The old master’s eyes twinkled as he chuckled. “The old master chuckled. ‘Ahhh, but I am. Let me ask you this, child. Is the mugger a Deviant? Does he have some power like those fancy ‘heroes‘ on the news?’

  The boy hesitated, frowning. “I… I don’t know, Master. You didn’t say.”

  The old man nodded. “Exactly. Maybe he’s a mage, or a Fae trickster, or just an ordinary man with a hidden gun. How would you tell?‘ Oftentimes, we cannot. Not until it’s too te. Why take the risk? As Samantha said, a wallet can be repced. Your life cannot.”

  He let the css sit with those words, the kids whispering among themselves, confusion and curiosity mixing on their faces.

  Finally, another boy raised his hand, and the master nodded again. The boy rose, his voice earnest. “But what if you don’t have a choice? What if he doesn’t just want your wallet — what if he attacks, or threatens someone else?”

  The old master’s smile returned, brighter than before. “Now you’re asking the right questions. Everyone, up!” He gestured, beckoning them all to stand. “What I’m about to teach you may not look as fshy as the movies, but I promise you — one day, it could save your life.”

  ____

  Jeremiah blinked as the vivid memory faded. He hadn’t stepped onto a training mat in years—not since csses had swallowed up his life. He knew Sam still visited the dojo; she’d mentioned once that their old master was disappointed he never showed his face anymore. Jeremiah had tried to keep his skills sharp, at least in the beginning, but over time, practice had drifted to the sidelines, like so many other things.

  All those movies and stories of martial arts masters nimbly dodging blow after blow, only to nd a fshy counter, were just that — stories. In real life, things just didn’t work like that. There were too many variables to account for. Unless you had a Reflex-core or Speed-core, trying to dodge a filing knife-wielder was next to impossible.

  If someone charges at you with a knife, expect to be cut.

  What you could do was choose where you were cut. A gash on your forearm was far more survivable than a stab to the chest. Redirect, absorb, control the danger.

  So that’s what Jeremiah did.

  As the bde fshed toward him, his hand shot up, smming into the thug’s wrist. The attack wrenched upward. Pain seared across Jeremiah’s cheek instead of tearing into his throat. He grunted at the sting but stayed focused, reaching for the man’s wrist while driving his opposite elbow forward.

  But even in this strange, slowed-down state, Jonny moved with unnatural speed. He slipped aside, a smirk spreading across his face, and let the knife drop. In a single, fluid motion, his free hand snatched the falling bde, and his wrist twisted, trapping Jeremiah’s grip, putting the arm high and breaking his bance.

  “Like I’d fall for that again!” the thug jeered, his voice thick with malice. He wrenched free, flipping the bde so it pointed downward, arm rising for the kill.

  Jeremiah’s breath caught. He saw his mistake too te. The knife plunged like a guillotine.

  THUNK!

  A heavy, metallic cng echoed across the street as something grey and fast smashed into the thug’s head. The man’s body snapped sideways, crashing into the brick wall with a force that sent cracks spiderwebbing through the masonry.

  For a long moment, Jeremiah stood frozen, eyes fixed on the empty air where the bde had hovered a heartbeat before. Only the ragged pull of his breath anchored him to the moment. Then, slowly, he lowered his gaze and spotted what had saved him. A dented cake tin y next to the motionless thug.

  Jeremiah followed its trajectory back across the street and saw Ulrick storming toward them, shoulders squared and jaw set. The giant’s face was tight with annoyance, but there was no mistaking the cold warning in his eyes. Jeremiah shivered, grateful and unsettled all at once.