The classroom smelled like dust and ozone.
Twenty students sat in tiered rows, most half-awake, others pretending to be. Outside, rain tapped against the glass like impatient fingers, and the gray light filtering in made everything feel heavier than it should. Welcome to September.
Eli sat in the second row, like he always did. Same seat. Same backrest screw poking into his ribs. Same first-day ritual.
Professor Halden entered, coat still damp, and dropped a heavy binder onto the desk with theatrical weight.
"Let's get this over with," he said, pulling off his glasses to clean them. "You've all heard it before. But tradition is tradition."
He turned toward the whiteboard and scrawled three words across it in broad strokes:
MAGIC IS BIOLOGY
A couple students rolled their eyes. A few tapped on their mana pads, logging notes automatically. Eli just watched, quietly alert.
"You are here," Halden continued, "because your blood says you should be. Because your DNA woke up in the womb and whispered: I control the skies. Or something adjacent enough to get you admitted."
Laughter rippled lightly through the room.
"By now you know the basics. Magic isn't mystical. It's genetic. Passed down, mutated, refined. A dormant organ—once lost to time—rediscovered in the mid-20th century. One post-war German scientist, a few unethical experiments, and boom—we've been playing god ever since."
He tapped his head. "That organ—the mana core—sits right behind the hypothalamus. Looks like a crystal. Acts like a muscle. Train it, and it grows. Neglect it, and it shrinks."
Eli's fingers tightened around his pen.
"Each of you has inherited some variation of elemental alignment—air, pressure, storm, current, moisture. Some of you may bend wind. Some may intensify cloud mass. A lucky few might even influence atmosphere on a micro level. And yes—before you ask—no, that doesn't mean you can skip class if it snows."
Another light laugh.
Eli didn't laugh.
Professor Halden leaned back against the desk, folding his arms. "Now then, before I start reading from the syllabus like a dying bard—any questions?"
A hand shot up in the back. Skinny kid. Long sleeves. Nervous energy.
"Yes, Mister…?"
"Donovan. Sir. Uh—if someone's core cracks… like, actually cracks—does that mean they, uh, die?"
A groan from the front row. "Core cracks again? We've been over this every year."
"Let the man be scared, Bria," Halden said, raising a brow. "It's a fair question. And the answer is: usually not. Not immediately. But it hurts. A lot. And recovery's a bitch, assuming the nerves weren't fried."
That made the room quiet again. Everyone suddenly very aware of the small gem nestled in their heads.
Halden smirked. "But hey, that's what we're here for—learn control, train stamina, avoid exploding during midterms. Win-win."
Bria leaned over toward Eli, whispering, "Bet he cracks during week two."
Eli didn't respond. Just tapped his pen rhythmically against his notepad, eyes still on the whiteboard. The words Magic is Biology were already fading into smears.
The lecture droned on for another fifteen minutes—basic procedures, assigned labs, power compatibility chart reviews. Eli tuned out most of it. He already knew the data. Had spent the last summer reading wind tunnel feedback reports and theory breakdowns while other students drank and posted casting trick shots.
Eventually, Halden snapped the binder closed.
"And that, dear students, concludes your annual reawakening. Dismissed—go forth and try not to accidentally collapse the weather dome on your way out."
Chairs scraped. Backpacks zipped. The low hum of chatter returned as students funneled out of the room.
Eli was halfway down the hallway when every phone in the building buzzed at once.
A sharp, synchronous trill of notification tones echoed like a siren swarm.
He pulled his out.
[ALERT: ABILITY CONTAINMENT FAILURE – ZONE: RENDLE CITY]
Status: MONITORED
Casualties: UNCONFIRMED
Advice: Remain cautious. Await further updates.
Bria leaned over his shoulder, reading the alert.
"Rendle? That's like three cities over, right?"
"Four," Eli replied.
"Probably another flare accident. Or some pyro kid trying to show off in a club." She shrugged and pocketed her phone. "Not our problem."
But Eli didn't put his away right away.
Something about the wording nagged at him.
It didn't say under control. It said monitored.
Outside, the rain hadn't stopped. If anything, it had gotten heavier—thin, needling drops that blew sideways in gusts that made umbrellas useless.
Eli didn't carry one. He never had to.
As he stepped out into the street, he let out a slow breath. Focused. And snapped his fingers.
Air twisted around him, subtle at first. Then tighter. Denser. A thin, nearly invisible shell of high-pressure atmosphere compressed around his head and shoulders, deflecting the rain before it could touch him.
He walked forward under a dome of nothing.
People passed, hoods pulled tight and shoulders hunched, barely noticing him—except for the occasional second glance. Pressurecraft wasn't common this refined, even among Weather Department hopefuls.
After a few blocks, his head started to throb. Not much. Just a pulse.
The mana core didn't burn like muscles did. It echoed. A slow dulling of senses. A slight drag to the breath. Like being mildly hungover from the inside out.
Eli dropped the field once he hit his apartment building's entrance.
Four floors up, a key turn later, and he was home.
A familiar bark exploded from behind the door.
"Hey, Temp."
The shaggy black shepherd mix bounded forward as Eli stepped in, tail wagging like a metronome gone mad. Tongue lolling. Eyes bright. Pure, uncomplicated joy.
Eli crouched, ruffled the fur behind the dog's ears, then leaned in with a small smirk.
"Walk?" he said.
Temp immediately spun in a tight, excited circle—nails scrabbling on the floorboards.
"Alright, alright, down."
He grabbed the leash from the hook, clipped it on, and held the door open.
Outside, the rain was steady but gentle. The kind that soaked you slow, not all at once.
Eli stepped out and exhaled, focusing.
With a sharp inhale and a flick of the fingers, the air around him shifted—condensing, compressing. A nearly invisible shell of high-pressure atmosphere warped around his head and shoulders again. Each raindrop veered just slightly off course, slipping around him like oil repelled from water.
Temp didn't seem to care either way. The dog trotted along, tongue out, gleeful.
The day's heat still clung to the pavement, soaked into every slab of concrete and brick. As the rain met it, steam didn't rise, exactly—but something softer did. A faint, rolling mist began to gather near the ground, curling around gutters and grates. The warm scent of rain on sun-baked earth rose with it—earthy, nostalgic. Like childhood summers and stormy evenings on the porch.
Eli breathed it in.
There was something peaceful about it.
He kept his left hand in his pocket, the other on his phone, thumb scrolling.
"Rendle Incident Escalates: Multiple Unconfirmed Casualties"
"Local Abilities Misfiring—Containment Teams En Route"
"Footage Shows Evacuation in City Centre—Public Urged to Stay Cautious"
No words like explosion or riot—but it felt close.
His phone buzzed again.
Eli slipped a pair of earbuds into his ears.
The soft chime of connection.
A tap on his phone, and the news began to play—low, clear, and professional.
"—still no official statement from Rendle City officials. Casualty numbers remain unconfirmed. Citizens are urged to stay cautious, especially those with unstable mana cores or recent enhancements. Early reports suggest possible loss of control due to stress or environmental triggers, though nothing has been verified."
Temp paused to sniff at a bush. Eli gave the leash a gentle tug.
"...this isn't the first case of large-scale ability misfires. But the number of emergency pings in the past hour is significantly higher than previous incidents, according to internal tracking systems. As a reminder, if you experience dizziness, surging heat in the core area, or erratic power usage, contact your local ability regulation office immediately."
The voice carried on, calm and measured. But it didn't feel calm.
By the time Eli turned the final corner toward his apartment complex, the report had ended.
A gentle ding as the feed cut off. Rain pattered softly on nearby leaves. Temp shook himself and trotted ahead toward the door.
The mist still lingered around their feet like it didn't want to leave.
Inside, Eli hung up his jacket, tossed his soaked shoes into the hallway corner, put away his ear plugs, and grabbed a towel from the laundry rack.
Temp stood obediently in place, tail wagging, waiting for the ritual.
"Yeah, yeah. Hold still."
He crouched, rubbing down the wet fur in broad, practiced motions. The dog leaned into it, like it was the best part of the day. Eli smirked—just a little.
After that, he filled Temp's bowl with dry food. The metal clink echoed in the kitchen as the dog immediately dug in.
Eli opened the fridge. Cold air hit his face.
Leftover pasta. Tomato sauce mostly congealed. He popped the container into the microwave, stabbed a few holes in the film lid with a fork, and pressed start.
Beep. Hum.
He moved to the sofa and dropped into it with a quiet sigh, grabbing the remote.
TV on. Volume low.
News.
Aerial footage from a helicopter—judging by the slight vibration of the feed and the angle, they were circling over city rooftops.
"—live shots coming in now from Rendle," the reporter said, voice slightly jittery. "You can see multiple emergency teams gathered below—though officials haven't yet confirmed the source of the disturbance. We've been asked to remain airborne, and—uh—maintain a safe perimeter."
The camera panned over cordoned-off streets and blinking sirens. People in hazmat suits. Ambulance stretchers. Something was wrong. But there were no flames, no explosions—just movement. Clusters of people. Some walking strangely.
The reporter continued, tone growing nervous.
"This is... we're seeing erratic behaviour in several individuals, possibly related to mana overload or neurological—wait, something's—"
The footage jolted.
A figure appeared on screen.
Not from somewhere. In the helicopter.
Instant.
No transition. No sound.
Just there—between the camera and the pilot's seat. Pale skin. Eyes dull and unfocused. Blood smeared down one arm. Dressed in what was left of a lab coat, torn and soaked.
Eli sat forward.
The reporter screamed.
The cameraman barely had time to move before the thing lunged.
A flash of motion—teeth. Blood. Shouts.
The camera jostled violently and fell sideways, thudding against the helicopter floor. The lens caught a warped view—crooked angle, tilted—of the pilot, now half-turned in his seat.
His neck was being torn into.
Blood sprayed across the window.
And in the background—
Another flash of movement.
The figure disappeared again, blinked—gone from one spot to another in a fraction of a second.
A crack of pressure, like air imploding in on itself.
The camera glitched.
The screen pixelated. Froze.
Then flickered back for one final second.
The helicopter crashed in the side of one of the buildings.
Inside, the news reporter—the one who'd been bitten first—twitched.
Her body jerked once. Then again.
Neck bent sideways. Eyes unfocused.
She began to rise.
And then—
Static.