The wind at the apex of the Superman Building screamed with the force of a hurricane, but for Omnihero, it was merely a backdrop. He hovered over a concealed maintenance hatch disguised as a limestone gargoyle, the six hyper-dense marrow canisters still tethered to his kinetic field.

  He didn't have time to descend to the subterranean vaults yet. The "marrow" was stabilized for now, but his shift at the bank was not. If he stayed gone a second past his allotted break, the "antsy teller" persona would start to fray.

  He dropped the canisters into the secure, lead-lined containment chute within the hatch. They fell with a heavy, muffled thrum, locked away behind registry-grade encryption. He would deal with the re-integration after the bank closed.

  Now, the clock was his only enemy.

  Omnihero dived toward the lower-level ventilation window he had exited minutes prior. As he passed through the aperture, he didn't slow down. He used his Molecular Phase to glide through the glass, landing in the center of the windowless locker room.

  The white bodysuit didn't just disappear; it retreated. In a reverse of the earlier shift, the Teleportative Overlay flickered. The white skin pulled back into the "Molecular Star" on his chest, and as it vanished, his civilian attire—the charcoal vest, the white shirt, the tailored slacks—snapped back into place with a subtle, static pop.

  He stumbled slightly, the sudden weight of gravity and the "biological" feel of the clothes making him feel sluggish for a heartbeat. He grabbed his felt hat from the locker, jammed it onto his head, and checked the wall clock.

  4 minutes and 52 seconds.

  He took a deep breath, consciously slumping his shoulders and letting his face fall into the "antsy, overworked" expression of Rumani Vikaria. He smoothed his vest, checked for any stray "power-up" sparks in his hair, and pushed open the heavy door.

  As he walked back onto the marble floor of the lobby, he saw Mrs. Gable standing near the teller line, checking her own pocket watch.

  "Back just in time, Rumani," she said, her voice warm but business-like. "You look a bit flushed. Was the breakroom coffee that hot?"

  "Oh, uh... yes, Mrs. Gable," Rumani stammered, offering his nervous, toothy smile as he adjusted his glasses. "I... I think I might have walked a bit too fast. My nerves, you know. I kept thinking about that Aether-Marrow account. It’s a lot of responsibility for one morning."

  "Well, settle back in," she said, gesturing toward Station 4. "The lobby is getting crowded again. Everyone wants their registry bonds checked after that 'harmonic tremor' we felt a few minutes ago."

  Rumani nodded, stepping behind the reinforced glass. He sat down, his fingers immediately finding the familiar rhythm of the ink pads and the ledger. To his coworkers, he was the man who had just finished a cup of coffee. To the city of Providenc, he was the silent ghost who had just prevented a continental catastrophe.

  As the next customer approached—a modest woman in a heavy wool coat—Rumani felt a faint vibration in his seat. It wasn't the city. It was the canisters in the rooftop chute, thirty thousand feet above his head, waiting for the sun to go down.

  The afternoon sun in Providenc began to slant through the high, arched windows of the Superman Building, casting long, golden bars across the marble floor. At Station 4, Rumani was mid-way through a stack of high-altitude agricultural bonds when the heavy brass revolving doors spun with a frantic, metallic clatter.

  In stumbled Jamal, the bank teller shadow assigned to Elara. He was a lanky, freckled boy who always looked like he was perpetually catching up to his own shadow. Today, he was more than just "behind schedule"—he was nearly three hours late, his tie askew and his modest civilian jacket buttoned incorrectly.

  "I'm here! I'm here!" Jamal wheezed, tripping over the edge of the velvet ropes. "The transit tubes... there was a massive pressure drop in the North Hub! The whole registry was backed up!"

  The lobby went quiet. Mrs. Gable appeared from behind the security pillars like a storm cloud moving over a valley. She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze pinning the boy to the spot.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "The transit delay was exactly twelve minutes, Jamal," Mrs. Gable said, her voice dropping into a tone of quiet, icy authority. "I checked the registry logs myself. Where have you been?"

  "I... I thought I saw Omnihero!" Jamal stammered, his freckles standing out against his pale skin. "I followed a crowd toward the shipyard! They said there was a massive 'clink' sound, like the world breaking!"

  Rumani kept his head down, his fingers moving with robotic precision as he stamped a document. He felt a bead of sweat—this time a genuine one—trace its way down his neck.

  "What you 'saw' was a distraction from your professional duties," Mrs. Gable countered. "While you were chasing ghosts at the docks, Rumani and Elara have been processing the sector’s marrow-bonds alone. Your tardiness is a structural failure of this team."

  She pointed toward the janitorial closet near the vault entrance. "Since you're so fond of the floor, you're going to get an intimate look at it. You will spend the next three hours sweeping every inch of this lobby. If I see a single speck of industrial soot on this marble, you'll be spending your weekend in the archives."

  "Three hours?" Jamal groaned, his shoulders sagging.

  "Get the broom, Jamal," she commanded.

  As Jamal trudged off to start his punishment, the lobby returned to its hushed, rhythmic hum. Rumani pulled the next ledger toward him—a thick, leather-bound volume from a private construction firm.

  As he opened it, his Oversight Senses triggered a silent alarm in his mind.

  The ink on the page looked normal, but the underlying "Registry Signature" of the transactions was a perfect match for the encrypted frequency of the Resonance Siphon he had just crushed at the shipyard. The numbers didn't add up to currency; they were coded coordinates for the city's "Marrow Veins."

  "Mr. Vikaria?" the customer at the window asked, a man in a modest grey suit. "Is there a problem with the entry?"

  Rumani blinked, his "antsy" persona returning instantly. "Oh! No, no... just a... a bit of a smudge in the ink. These old ledgers, you know? They’re so... heavy."

  Under the counter, his leg bounced with a nervous energy that wasn't entirely faked. He realized that the Aether-Marrow Group wasn't just stealing the city’s physics from the docks—they were laundering the theft right through his own station.

  The afternoon sun in Providenc began to slant through the high, arched windows of the Superman Building, casting long, golden bars across the marble floor. At Station 4, Rumani was mid-way through a stack of high-altitude agricultural bonds when the heavy brass revolving doors spun with a frantic, metallic clatter.

  In stumbled Jamal, the bank teller shadow assigned to Elara. He was a lanky, freckled boy who always looked like he was perpetually catching up to his own shadow. Today, he was more than just "behind schedule"—he was nearly three hours late, his tie askew and his modest civilian jacket buttoned incorrectly.

  "I'm here! I'm here!" Jamal wheezed, tripping over the edge of the velvet ropes. "The transit tubes... there was a massive pressure drop in the North Hub! The whole registry was backed up!"

  The lobby went quiet. Mrs. Gable appeared from behind the security pillars like a storm cloud moving over a valley. She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze pinning the boy to the spot.

  "The transit delay was exactly twelve minutes, Jamal," Mrs. Gable said, her voice dropping into a tone of quiet, icy authority. "I checked the registry logs myself. Where have you been?"

  "I... I thought I saw Omnihero!" Jamal stammered, his freckles standing out against his pale skin. "I followed a crowd toward the shipyard! They said there was a massive 'clink' sound, like the world breaking!"

  Rumani kept his head down, his fingers moving with robotic precision as he stamped a document. He felt a bead of sweat—this time a genuine one—trace its way down his neck.

  "What you 'saw' was a distraction from your professional duties," Mrs. Gable countered. "While you were chasing ghosts at the docks, Rumani and Elara have been processing the sector’s marrow-bonds alone. Your tardiness is a structural failure of this team."

  She pointed toward the janitorial closet near the vault entrance. "Since you're so fond of the floor, you're going to get an intimate look at it. You will spend the next three hours sweeping every inch of this lobby. If I see a single speck of industrial soot on this marble, you'll be spending your weekend in the archives."

  "Three hours?" Jamal groaned, his shoulders sagging.

  "Get the broom, Jamal," she commanded.

  As Jamal trudged off to start his punishment, the lobby returned to its hushed, rhythmic hum. Rumani pulled the next ledger toward him—a thick, leather-bound volume from a private construction firm.

  As he opened it, his Oversight Senses triggered a silent alarm in his mind.

  The ink on the page looked normal, but the underlying "Registry Signature" of the transactions was a perfect match for the encrypted frequency of the Resonance Siphon he had just crushed at the shipyard. The numbers didn't add up to currency; they were coded coordinates for the city's "Marrow Veins."

  "Mr. Vikaria?" the customer at the window asked, a man in a modest grey suit. "Is there a problem with the entry?"

  Rumani blinked, his "antsy" persona returning instantly. "Oh! No, no... just a... a bit of a smudge in the ink. These old ledgers, you know? They’re so... heavy."

  Under the counter, his leg bounced with a nervous energy that wasn't entirely faked. He realized that the Aether-Marrow Group wasn't just stealing the city’s physics from the docks—they were laundering the theft right through his own station.