The smoke twisted above the city like restless ghosts, spiraling into a bruised sky. Fires burned in trash bins and car windows shimmered with the distorted reflections of flickering flames. Baltimore was alive, but not in the way it once had been. Streets once alive with chatter now echoed with anger, despair, and the sound of boots stomping against asphalt. The Freddie Gray riots had turned corners of the city into battlegrounds.

Leroy Wilkins moved silently through the chaos, his hood pulled low, the fabric frayed at the edges. At twenty, he had long learned how to be invisible. The city demanded it. Standing just over six feet with broad shoulders and a wiry frame, Leroy's build suggested strength, but his eyes betrayed something deeper—a mind that seldom rested, a storm always churning just beneath the surface. Tonight, the storm inside him was louder than the one outside.

He tightened his grip on the tattered notebook tucked under his arm. Inside it were fragments of thoughts—half-formed ideas, sketches of the impossible, and his theories on what he couldn't yet name. They weren't powers, not yet. Just inklings of something unreal.

On the corner of Madison and Eutaw, a shattered streetlamp flickered weakly, its light catching the reflection of broken glass. People rushed past, shouting slogans or curses. One figure darted too close, shoving Leroy aside. He stumbled but recovered, his gaze fixed on the shadow of a man standing unnervingly still amid the chaos.

The man didn't belong—not to this riot, this anger, or this city. Clad in an impeccable gray coat, his face was obscured by a hat pulled low. Leroy stopped in his tracks. The man tilted his head slightly, and in that moment, Leroy felt an unfamiliar sensation crawling across his skin—a vibration that wasn't sound but something deeper, resonant.

"Who are you?" Leroy muttered, but the words were lost in the roar of an approaching crowd.

The stranger didn't answer, didn't move. Leroy's chest tightened. He hadn't noticed until now that the street around him seemed… quieter. The riot was still there, but muffled, as though he'd stepped into some invisible sphere of silence. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the man turned and vanished into the alley.

Leroy didn't follow. Not then.

Instead, he ducked into the shadowed alcove of a boarded-up laundromat and pulled out his notebook. He flipped through pages filled with sketches of abstract shapes, spirals, and webs drawn over notes scribbled in cramped handwriting:

"What you imagine becomes real, if you let it."

"Emotion drives form. Clarity dictates control."

"What if the world isn't fixed? What if the world is what we make it?"

They weren't just theories anymore. A week ago, Leroy had been cornered by three men outside his uncle's corner store. He hadn't thought—he'd simply reacted. In that moment, a thick, web-like strand shot from his palm, wrapping around a rusted pipe above their heads. The men froze, and so did Leroy.

"What the hell?" one of them muttered before they all bolted.

Since then, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. The strands weren't normal webs; they shimmered, almost liquid, and seemed to dissolve into nothing moments after forming. They responded to his thoughts, but only when those thoughts were clear, almost desperate.

He traced the outline of one spiral sketch with his finger, muttering under his breath. "Clarity, Leroy. Clarity."

A sharp crack snapped him out of his thoughts. A few blocks away, a line of riot police advanced, shields raised. Protesters threw bricks and bottles, voices ringing with pain and fury. Leroy's heart pounded as he pressed himself deeper into the shadows.

Then he saw her.

Aisha.

She stood at the front of the crowd, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "This is our city!" she yelled. "They want us to burn it down so they can blame us. Don't give them the satisfaction!"

Leroy felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't spoken to her in months, not since dropping out of community college. She'd always been fire—untamed, fierce, and impossible to ignore. Seeing her now, with the glow of burning buildings framing her silhouette, he felt a mix of admiration and dread. She was in danger, and she didn't even know it.

Before he could think, his legs moved. He stepped out of the alcove and into the fray.

The air was thick with smoke and tension. A bottle sailed past Leroy's head, smashing against a car window. The crowd surged, pushing him closer to Aisha. She turned, their eyes meeting for the briefest moment before a flash-bang grenade exploded between them.

The world tilted. Sound became a distant echo, and white light swallowed his vision. When he came to, he was on the ground, ears ringing. He blinked, trying to focus, and saw a riot officer raising his baton over Aisha.

"No," Leroy whispered, the word carrying more weight than he intended.

His palm burned. Instinct took over. He reached out, and a shimmering strand shot from his hand, wrapping around the officer's arm and yanking him backward. The man stumbled, his baton falling uselessly to the ground.

Aisha stared, wide-eyed.

"What—what did you just do?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Leroy didn't answer. He couldn't. He turned and ran, the notebook clutched tightly to his chest.

He didn't stop running until he reached the roof of an abandoned warehouse near the harbor. The city stretched out below him, a patchwork of lights and shadows. His chest heaved as he leaned against the rusted railing, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The strand—it had felt different this time. Stronger. More precise.

As he caught his breath, the memory of the stranger returned. The vibration. The silence.

"What's happening to me?" he whispered, the question hanging in the cold night air.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed something strange. A faint glow emanated from his hand, the same hand that had produced the strand. The light pulsed softly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat.

He opened his palm, and the glow intensified, forming a tiny, intricate web. It wasn't physical, not entirely. It shimmered like a mirage, alive with potential.

For the first time, Leroy felt the storm inside him quiet, replaced by something else.

Purpose.