Jack Donovan’s alarm clock still went off at 5:00 a.m. sharp. Four years since the world had turned itself inside out, and that damn clock never missed a beat. He didn’t need it, not really. It was a holdover from the life he used to live—the one where schedules mattered, where a badge and a gun gave him a purpose. But now, the routine was just that—a routine, a tether to something resembling normal.

  The sound of the alarm cut through the silence of his small apartment, a grating buzz that felt too loud for the stillness outside. Jack’s hand moved automatically to silence it, but he didn’t get up right away. Instead, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, his mind already ticking through the same thoughts it did every morning.

  Outside, the city was waking up. He could hear it, faint through the cracked window—the distant rumble of garbage trucks, the occasional honk of an impatient driver, the early risers who still believed in the 9-to-5 grind. That world kept moving, pretending things were the same. Jack knew better.

  He pushed the covers off and sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. The stubble on his chin felt rough, unkempt—like everything else in his life. The apartment wasn’t much. It never had been, but it was quieter than the shelters that had popped up after The Wave. Less dangerous, too. People thought because the world had powers now, the old problems had disappeared. Jack knew better than that, too. The streets still had their share of crime. The only difference now was that some people could burn your house down just by looking at it.

  He stood, stretching out the stiffness in his back, and shuffled to the kitchen. The fridge was nearly empty, a few cans of cheap beer, half a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. The essentials. He grabbed the bread, tossing two slices into the toaster before heading to the bathroom.

  The face that stared back at him from the cracked mirror wasn’t the one he remembered. The lines were deeper now, the gray more prominent in his hair. His eyes—well, those were the same. Cold, unreadable. Cop’s eyes. The kind that had seen enough to know what people were capable of.

  Jack had been good at his job once. A detective with a reputation for getting things done, even when they were messy. He was never the guy you sent in to smooth things over, but if you needed results, Jack delivered. Until he couldn’t.

  He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water over his face. Four years ago, when The Wave hit, things had changed for everyone. Overnight, the world split into two kinds of people—those who could keep doing what they were doing, and those who had to start over. Jack fell into the latter. He hadn’t even lasted six months after The Wave before they cut him loose. “New priorities,” they’d said. “New demands.” They didn’t need a guy who could read people anymore. They needed Supers with fancy tricks, people who could solve problems with a snap of their fingers or a flick of their wrists.

  Jack didn’t have that.

  He towel-dried his face, walked back to the kitchen, and snatched his toast just as it popped. Dry and flavorless, it wasn’t much, but it was something to chew on while he flipped on the police scanner. The static-filled crackle hummed through the apartment, blending into the background noise as Jack sat at the table, one ear tuned to the droning voices.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Most days, nothing came of it. The city was quieter now than it had been in the early days after The Wave, back when chaos had ripped through every street corner. People had adapted. Supers had been slotted into jobs, into neatly categorized boxes, controlled and monitored. But every now and then, something slipped through the cracks.

  “—we have a 10-54 at the corner of Halsted and 22nd, possible Code 4—”

  Jack listened, chewing on the dry toast. Nothing he hadn’t heard before. A domestic dispute, some street-level criminal trying to make a name for himself, someone with powers who hadn’t figured out how to control them yet. The new normal. It wasn’t his problem anymore. It shouldn’t have been his problem.

  But it still felt like it was.

  He pushed the plate away and stood, pacing the length of his small living room. The place was a mess—boxes stacked against the walls, unopened. He’d moved in after the department had cut him loose, figuring it was temporary. Just until he found something else. But there hadn’t been anything else. Not for him.

  He wasn’t like the others. No corporation was going to knock on his door and offer him a cushy contract. He didn’t have the kind of abilities that could make him rich, or useful. He was just a guy who knew how to listen, how to put the pieces together.

  The scanner crackled again, a burst of static that drew his attention. “—units in the area, we’ve got reports of an unlicensed Super causing disturbances near the Roosevelt Bridge. Possible Class 3 Manipulator.”

  Jack stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing. Class 3 Manipulator. He knew what that meant—someone who could move things, bend elements, maybe even warp space if they were strong enough. Those were the ones who caused the most trouble. The ones who didn’t know how to control their power, or didn’t care.

  He stood there for a long moment, hands on his hips, staring at the scanner like it was daring him to do something. It wasn’t his job. It wasn’t his problem. But something about the way the voice had said “unlicensed” gnawed at him. The government had cracked down hard on unregistered Supers. If you had powers, you got ranked, slotted into a role, made to fall in line. And if you didn’t, well…you disappeared.

  Jack exhaled sharply through his nose and shook his head. He wasn’t going to do it. Not today.

  But by the time he realized his feet were already carrying him to the door, it was too late.

  He grabbed his jacket—leather, worn at the elbows—and threw it over his shoulders, checking the pocket for his wallet. He didn’t carry a gun anymore, but old habits died hard. The weight of the badge was missing, though. He could still feel the absence of it, a ghost pressing against his ribs.

  The streets outside his apartment were quiet, but that didn’t mean anything. The city had learned how to hide its chaos well. Jack pulled his jacket tighter as he made his way to the Roosevelt Bridge, staying to the side streets. Chicago looked different now, even though the skyline was still familiar. The new buildings—the ones built to withstand the occasional Super tantrum—rose higher, their reinforced frames jutting out like teeth. Security drones buzzed overhead, their cameras scanning the streets for anyone who didn’t belong.

  He kept his head down, hands in his pockets. He was used to being invisible.

  As he neared the bridge, the sounds of commotion reached him first—raised voices, the unmistakable crackle of energy in the air. Jack stopped at the corner, peering around the edge of the building. A group of civilians had gathered, keeping their distance, their faces pale with fear. Just ahead, on the bridge itself, a young man stood with his hands outstretched, a shimmering aura flickering around him.

  Jack watched, his pulse steady. It wasn’t his problem.

  But as the wind shifted, carrying the smell of ozone and the panicked murmur of the crowd, Jack knew what was coming next. He knew what happened when people like that lost control.

  And he knew what he was going to do about it.