Arin woke up screaming.
His body jolted upright, lungs burning, fingers clawing at the bedsheet as if gravity itself had tried to pull him through the mattress. The room was dark, silent—too normal.
Too human.
He looked down at his hands.
They were shaking.
The nightmare clung to him like a second skin.
Cities folding inward. Buildings bending as if made of wax. People frozen mid-step, suspended in the air, their screams crushed into silence by an invisible pressure. Above it all, he stood—not as a savior, not as a king—but as the weight holding everything in place.
And the worst part?
They were safe.
Alive.
Controlled.
Arin swallowed hard and swung his legs off the bed. The floor creaked beneath his feet, grounding him. He pressed his palm to his chest.
The heaviness was still there.
Not pain. Not sickness.
Presence.
Outside, the city buzzed with restless energy. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, overlapping voices of news anchors spilling from open windows.
"…unprecedented meteorological event—"
"…government urges calm—"
"…no confirmed casualties—"
Arin moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside.
The sky looked ordinary.
That terrified him.
Across the city, Kian didn't wake up screaming.
He woke up laughing.
The sound echoed through an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts, sharp and manic, bouncing off steel beams and broken glass. He lay on the concrete floor, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling where burn marks still glowed faintly white.
He raised his hand.
The air above his palm shimmered.
Then vanished.
A hole—not black, not empty—gone.
Matter didn't break.
It ceased.
Kian sucked in a breath, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding every nerve. He let the hole collapse and sat up slowly, eyes wide with awe.
"So this is what it feels like," he whispered. "To decide."
His laughter faded as memories surged in.
The vision.
Humanity's weapons tearing continents apart. Experiments ripping holes in reality. Scientists smiling as they signed extinction warrants with clean hands.
Errors must be erased.
The thought returned—clearer now.
Not forced.
Agreed with.
Kian stood, brushing dust from his clothes. Somewhere far away, helicopters roared toward the impact site. Toward him.
"Relax," he muttered. "I won't be here when you arrive."
He stepped forward—
—and the concrete beneath his feet disintegrated into light.
At school, they called it a miracle.
At the assembly, the principal spoke with shaking hands about "cosmic blessings" and "human resilience." Students whispered theories, some excited, some afraid. A girl cried. A boy claimed it was aliens.
Arin sat in the back row, silent.
Every sound felt heavier than it should have.
When the applause started, he felt it before he heard it—a ripple of pressure moving through the hall. He flinched, instinctively tightening his grip on the bench.
The applause softened.
Not stopped.
Softened.
Arin released his breath slowly.
Okay, he thought. That's new.
Someone leaned toward him. "Hey… you good?"
Arin nodded without looking.
He wasn't listening.
He was feeling.
Fear clustered near the exits. Excitement buzzed in the center rows. Authority pressed down from the stage like a physical force.
Patterns.
Invisible threads.
Holding everything together.
They need structure.
The thought returned, uninvited.
Arin stood up abruptly.
"Bathroom," he muttered and walked out before anyone could respond.
In the empty corridor, he leaned against the wall, heart racing. He pressed his hand outward.
The air bent.
Just slightly.
Enough.
He snapped his hand back like he'd touched fire.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no…"
This wasn't a gift.
This was responsibility.
By evening, the world had chosen a narrative.
News channels replayed the same footage on loop—craters, scorched earth, emergency teams. Experts argued. Governments reassured. Conspiracy theories exploded.
And then came the first headline:
WHITE ZONE ANNIHILATED — MILITARY FACILITY ERASED
Satellite images showed a place where a weapons testing site had existed that morning.
Now there was nothing.
No rubble.
No ash.
Just absence.
They called it a terrorist attack.
They showed a blurry figure caught on a security camera—light blooming around him, face indistinct, walking calmly as the world disappeared behind him.
Arin watched from his room, blood running cold.
"Kian…" he breathed.
His phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
One message.
K:
I know you felt it too.
Arin stared at the screen, pulse hammering.
Another message followed.
K:
They're calling me a monster already. Guess that answers the question.
Arin typed back with trembling fingers.
A:
What did you do?
The reply came instantly.
K:
I stopped them.
Arin closed his eyes.
On the screen, the anchor spoke gravely:
"Officials estimate millions of lives may have been saved…"
Saved.
Arin looked at his hand again, at the way the room subtly leaned toward him.
He thought of order. Control. Peace enforced by gravity itself.
His phone buzzed once more.
K:
We said we'd save the world, remember?
Arin typed slowly.
A:
We said we'd save humanity.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
K:
Same thing.
Arin knew then—deep in the weight settling into his bones—that it wasn't.
Outside, the sky darkened.
Above it all, the universe watched in silence.
And somewhere between gravity and annihilation, a nightmare began to take shape.