The hospital basement smelled of bleach and damp concrete, a stale cocktail that clung to Elias Varn's nostrils as he pushed his mop across the linoleum. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their flicker a quiet menace that set his nerves on edge. At 28, he'd spent ten years as a janitor—ten years of late shifts, stained floors, and the comforting monotony of routine. Tonight, though, the air pressed against his skin, thick and restless. He glanced at the clock bolted to the wall: 11:47 PM, March 20, 2025. Thirteen minutes until he could punch out, shuffle back to his one-room apartment, and lose himself in a paperback until the world felt small and safe again.
He adjusted his grip on the mop, the wood worn smooth under his calloused palms. His reflection stared back from a puddle—pale, hollow-cheeked, with dark circles framing hazel eyes that darted too often. Elias didn't like mirrors. They reminded him of everything he wasn't: bold, decisive, someone who mattered. A faint tremor rippled through the floor, sloshing water from the bucket onto his frayed sneakers. He froze, breath catching. "Just the pipes," he muttered, though the words sounded thin even to him. The hospital was old, its bones creaking with every gust of wind. He'd heard worse noises before. Still, his pulse quickened, a familiar drumbeat of dread.
Then the world split apart.
A roar like a freight train tore through the silence, and the floor lurched beneath him. Elias stumbled, the mop clattering away as cracks spiderwebbed across the concrete. The ceiling groaned, sagging under an unseen weight, and a shower of dust rained down, gritty against his tongue. He lunged for the stairwell, heart slamming against his ribs, but a slab of debris—jagged and gray—crashed down, sealing the exit with a thunderous boom. Panic clawed up his throat, sharp and suffocating. He pressed himself against the wall, fingers digging into the chipped paint as the lights flickered wildly, casting the basement in a strobe of shadows.
Screams pierced the haze from above—patients wailing, nurses shouting orders, a child's sob cut short by another tremor. The lights sputtered out, plunging him into near-darkness, broken only by the orange flare of a sparking wire dangling from the ceiling. Elias's breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a plea against the inevitable. "I'm going to die," he whispered, the thought looping like a broken record. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't brave. He was just a janitor who'd stayed too late, a nobody caught in a nightmare he couldn't outrun.
Footsteps pounded through the dust, and a figure emerged—a woman in a paramedic's uniform, her dark hair matted with plaster, her face smeared with grime. She spotted him, her brown eyes sharp despite the chaos. "Hey! You okay?" Her voice cut through the ringing in his ears, steady where his wasn't.
Elias opened his mouth, but fear locked his jaw. Words dissolved into a whimper. She darted closer, her badge catching the faint light: Mira Kade. Up close, she smelled faintly of antiseptic and sweat, a lifeline in the choking haze. "We've got to move," she said, grabbing his arm. Her grip was firm, grounding. "This place is coming down."
Before he could protest, the ground bucked again, and a steel beam overhead snapped with a shriek of metal. It plummeted toward them, a guillotine of twisted rebar and rust. Elias shrieked, shoving Mira aside on pure instinct—a reflex born of terror, not courage. The beam slammed into the floor inches from his feet, the impact jarring his bones. His legs buckled, and he collapsed, trembling uncontrollably. "I can't—I can't do this—" His voice cracked, barely audible over the groan of the dying building.
Mira hauled him upright, her strength surprising for her wiry frame. "You can. Come on!" She dragged him toward a utility closet as the ceiling splintered further, chunks of plaster pelting the ground like hail. They stumbled inside, the door banging shut behind them just as a cascade of rubble buried the hallway. The closet was a coffin of brooms and shelves, lit by a flickering emergency bulb that cast their shadows in jagged relief. Elias sank to the floor, hugging his knees, his mind a storm of jagged edges. His glasses fogged with panicked breaths, blurring the world into smears of gray and orange.
"We're dead," he gasped, rocking slightly. "We're dead, we're dead, we're dead—" The mantra spilled out, a lifeline to hold his sanity together.
"Stop it," Mira snapped, kneeling beside him. Her voice was a whipcrack, pulling him back from the abyss. "Focus. There's a vent up there." She pointed to a rusted grate near the ceiling, barely wide enough for a person. "If we can—" Her words drowned in another shudder, the walls trembling as if the hospital were a beast shaking itself apart. She pounded the door with a fist, but the debris beyond held firm. "Damn it!"
Elias's chest tightened, his vision swimming. He'd always been afraid—of heights, of crowds, of the dark corners where his imagination spun worst-case scenarios. Now, trapped in a collapsing tomb, that fear swelled into something primal, a beast gnawing at his ribs. And then he felt it—a heat, sharp and electric, blooming beneath his sternum. It pulsed outward, a wave he couldn't contain, and Mira gasped, staggering back as if struck. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating like twin eclipses.
"What the hell was that?" she demanded, flexing her hands. Her fingers twitched, restless, as though something foreign coursed through her veins. Before Elias could answer, the closet door buckled inward, a chunk of concrete hurtling toward them like a cannonball. Mira moved—impossibly fast—her body blurring into a streak of motion. She tackled the debris midair, smashing it against the wall with a force that cracked the plaster and sent a broom clattering to the floor.
Elias gaped, his fear spiking higher, a cold sweat beading on his brow. "H-how did you—"
"I don't know!" Mira stared at her trembling fists, then at him, her expression a mix of awe and accusation. "Did you do that?"
The building quaked again, a low groan rumbling through the walls, and the vent overhead burst open with a screech of metal. A figure tumbled through—a nurse, her scrubs torn, her arm bleeding from a gash that stained the fabric crimson. She hit the floor with a cry, clutching the wound. "Help me!" she pleaded, her voice raw. "They're trapped up there—patients, kids, they're dying—"
Elias's stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. He didn't know her name, but he'd seen her before—always rushing, always kind, the kind of person who belonged in a crisis. Not like him. The heat flared again, sharper this time, and another pulse rippled out, invisible but tangible. The nurse jolted, her arm glowing faintly—a soft, golden shimmer. The bleeding slowed, then stopped, the skin knitting itself shut before their eyes. She blinked, stunned, then flexed her fingers. "I—I can fix them," she stammered, her voice steadier now. With a newfound agility, she scrambled back into the vent, disappearing into the darkness above.
Mira grabbed Elias's collar, her grip fierce. "What are you?" Her eyes bored into his, demanding answers he didn't have.
"I don't know!" he wailed, tears streaking his dirt-smudged face. "I'm scared, I'm just—I'm nothing!" His glasses slipped down his nose, and he fumbled to push them back, hands shaking. The pulse hit again, stronger, a tidal wave born of his spiraling terror. Mira blurred once more, wrenching the debris from the door aside in a single, explosive motion. Shards of concrete skittered across the floor, and the hallway beyond yawned open, a maw of dust and flickering light.
"Whatever you're doing, keep doing it," she ordered, pulling him to his feet. Her voice was a lifeline, firm where his resolve crumbled. They stumbled into the wreckage, the air thick with ash and the acrid bite of smoke. Distant screams grew louder, punctuated by the crackle of flames licking at the upper floors. Elias tripped over a broken IV stand, his sneakers squeaking against the rubble-strewn tiles. Each step felt like wading through quicksand, his legs heavy with dread.
A man staggered toward them—an orderly Elias vaguely recognized, his bald head slick with sweat, his uniform torn at the shoulder. "The east wing's gone," he rasped, clutching a fire extinguisher. "Kids are trapped in the ICU—" His words choked off as Elias's fear surged again, the pulse washing over him. The orderly's arms bulged, muscles rippling unnaturally, and he hefted a fallen beam off the hallway with a grunt, clearing a path as if it weighed nothing.
Elias stared, his mind reeling. "I—I didn't mean to—" But Mira was already moving, dragging him past the orderly toward the stairwell's remains. The walls tilted, groaning under the strain, and a burst of heat washed down from above, carrying the stench of burning plastic. Survivors dotted the chaos—janitors lifting slabs of concrete, doctors sprinting through flames with impossible speed, a patient crawling free of rubble with hands that glowed like the nurse's. Each one bore the mark of that strange pulse, a gift Elias couldn't comprehend.
By dawn, the hospital was a husk, its skeleton smoldering under a gray sky. Sirens wailed in the distance, red and blue lights painting the wreckage. Elias stood amid the survivors, pale and shaking, his janitor's jumpsuit torn at the knees. Cameras flashed from news vans, voices shouting over one another—"Who saved them?" "A miracle!" "The Beacon!"—the name catching like wildfire. Mira lingered nearby, her speed fading but her glare fixed on him, arms crossed tight.
He wasn't a hero. He was a coward who'd unleashed something wild, something he couldn't take back. His chest ached, the heat still simmering beneath his ribs, and deep inside, a shadow stirred—a voice not his own, threading through the haze like a whisper on the wind: "This is only the beginning." Elias flinched, scanning the crowd, but no one else seemed to hear it. The words coiled around his spine, cold and inevitable, promising a future he wasn't ready to face.