Some believe the world began with a spark of Anima, a single act of creation in the void. They are wrong.
The world began with a song. A chorus of infinite power, sung by a race known as the Primordials. They were not gods, who are made of faith; the Primordials were made of reality itself. Their will sculpted the universe from raw chaos, and their word was its law. They sang concepts into existence: Friction, Gravity, Heat, Light. For ages, the world was their grand symphony, a living testament to their art.
But the song ended.
No one knows why. Archives speak of a great sundering, a cosmic silence that left the world hollow. The mighty Primordials did not die—they vanished, leaving only a faint echo of their power. Their grand concepts, once vibrant, became the quiet, unbreakable laws of the universe. Anima, once a living chorus, faded to a faint hum—a whisper where there was once a roar.
Now, millennia after the Great Silence, the world's mightiest are seven beings known as The Nexus. They are considered the strongest, and they believe the song is over, that the time of the Primordials is a distant memory.
They have no idea how wrong they are.
Earth - Chicago, Illinois
1:20 PM
The buzz of an alarm dragged Jordan from a dream he couldn't remember. Groaning, he fumbled for his phone. 1:20 PM. His thumb hovered over the snooze button.
"Thirty minutes won't hurt," he muttered, pulling the covers over his head. The darkness was comfortable, familiar—like the orphanage rooms where blankets were the only privacy he'd ever known.
Just as sleep began to reclaim him, his phone rang. The screen lit up: Twin.
Jordan stared at it, debating. Twin wasn't his actual brother, just his best friend who looked enough like him that people assumed. Same height, same build, different stories. Where Jordan had grown up on hand-me-downs, Twin had everything.
"Yo," Jordan answered, his voice thick with sleep.
"Party tonight. You should come," Twin said, his voice carrying an energy that meant trouble. "Naomi's gonna be there."
The name was like cold water. Naomi. His crush for thirteen years, since she'd shared her crayons with him in third grade. Now she was in college studying to be a doctor, while Jordan worked warehouse jobs and slept until afternoon. Suddenly, he was wide awake.
"Hell yeah," Jordan replied, sitting up so fast his head spun.
Twin laughed. "Knew you'd say that. Your crush is insane. Listen, come by at 8:30. Need help setting up."
"Got you."
The line went dead. Jordan climbed out of bed, his feet hitting the cold floor of his studio apartment. He'd been alone so long that solitude felt like an old friend—foster homes from age seven, group homes from fourteen, then aging out at eighteen with a garbage bag of clothes and a chip on his shoulder.
He grabbed a towel, a black T-shirt, and dark jeans. The shower's hot water washed away the last of his sleep, the steam fogging the small bathroom. Stepping out, he wiped the condensation from the mirror. Water clung to his brown skin. At six-foot-three, he had a build from street ball and loading trucks, not gym memberships. His dreads, retwisted last week, hung past his shoulders.
Twin joked he looked like "Adonis from the South Side," but Jordan didn't see it. A sharp jawline didn't help you talk to the one person who mattered.
He threw on his clothes and grabbed his keys. Outside, the Chicago summer heat made the air shimmer above the asphalt. His black Dodge Charger sat in the lot like a predator at rest, the car his one real splurge after two years of double shifts. The engine roared to life with a satisfying rumble.
Pulling out, he noticed the gas gauge hovering near E. The nearest station was three blocks away—a sketchy spot with bulletproof glass and broken pumps. The bell above the door chimed as he entered. The cashier, a tired man in a faded Cubs jersey, barely looked up.
"Sixty on six," Jordan said, slapping three twenties on the counter.
His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since yesterday, maybe the day before. He wandered toward the chip aisle for his usual spicy Doritos. Nothing. Typical.
He was about to leave when the door burst open.
Five people rushed in, screaming, guns drawn. Jordan's body went still—not with fear, but with a calculated stillness. Panic gets you killed.
"Hands up! Open the register!" the leader yelled, pressing his gun against the bulletproof glass.
The other four spread out. Jordan counted six customers, including himself. A mother clutched her daughter, inching toward the door. An old man stood frozen by the coffee machine. Two teenagers looked ready to piss themselves. And him.
The mother made her move. Too obvious. One of the gunmen—younger, jumpier—pistol-whipped her across the temple. She went down hard, blood pooling on the linoleum. Her seven-year-old daughter began to cry.
Jordan's mind, honed by years of surviving on observation, cataloged them instantly.
• The Leader: Favoring his left leg. Old injury. Desperate.
• Gunman Two (The Jumper): Shaking, sweaty palms. First-timer. Guilt already eating at him.
• Gunman Three (The Pro): Calm, steady, balanced. The dangerous one.
• Gunman Four (The Follower): Young, looking to the leader for approval. Gun too big for his hands.
• Gunman Five (The Distraction): Watching the door but checking his phone. Sloppy. Probably high.
He felt a familiar itch. He should stay quiet, let them leave. But Jordan had learned long ago that when you grow up fighting for everything, you either break or learn to love the battle.
He started walking toward the jumper. Slow, casual, hands visible.
"Hey," Jordan said, his voice eerily calm. "Can I just get some free stuff?"
The gunman spun toward him, finger trembling on the trigger. He was just a kid, in over his head. Jordan felt a flicker of pity, but the image of the mother bleeding on the floor erased it.
Jordan moved like water. His fist drove into the gunman's liver with surgical precision. The kid dropped, gasping. Before anyone could react, Jordan had the gun, his arm wrapped around the man's throat, the barrel pressed to his temple.
"Nobody move, or he gets a new hole in his head," Jordan said, his voice unsettlingly level. The chaos made everything crystal clear. "Guns on the floor. Slide them over. Now."
They hesitated. He pressed the gun harder. The hostage whimpered.
"I'm not asking twice."
The guns clattered to the floor. Jordan kicked them toward a storage closet, using his human shield. He backed toward it, swept the guns inside with his foot, never taking his eyes off the group.
"Everyone stay calm, and we all go—"
The punch came from his blind spot. A sixth gunman, one who'd been in the bathroom. The impact snapped his head to the side, stars exploding in his vision. The gun flew from his hand.
What followed wasn't a fight; it was a beating. For a moment, he was a whirlwind of street-honed violence, breaking one attacker's nose with a headbutt and cracking another's ribs with an elbow. But six-on-one was math, and the numbers weren't in his favor.
They got him down, boots and fists raining down. Jordan curled up, protecting his head. He didn't blame the other customers for watching, too scared to help. He probably wouldn't have either.
What the fuck was I thinking? he wondered, tasting blood. But even through the pain, part of him was satisfied. This was better than sleeping through another afternoon. This was living, even if it was also dying.
"Next time, check for two guns," the sixth gunman said, pulling a revolver from his ankle holster.
Jordan looked up at the barrel. Time slowed. Knew it would end one of these ways, he thought. In my next life, reincarnate me as a dragon or something.
He closed his eyes, thinking of Naomi one last time.
The gun fired.
Darkness.
Nothing.
An endless void where thought should be. No pain, no fear. Just… absence.
And then, somewhere in that infinite nothing…
A song began to play.