The lighting in the Meyer dining room was never meant to be comfortable. It was meant to be luminous.
Seven-year-old Vaun Meyer stood in the narrow, shadow-drenched hallway of their Baltimore apartment, his back pressed against the peeling wallpaper. He remained perfectly still, a silent observer to the nightly ritual that transformed their cramped kitchen into a high-definition theater. His mother, Elena Meyer, was the architect of this artifice. She moved with a frantic, jittery grace, her eyes darting between the arrangement of a single, glazed Sunrise Tartlet on the table and the glowing interface of her cinema camera.
Three massive LED ring lights stood like cold, unblinking suns around the table, casting a flat, unforgiving white glare that erased every human imperfection. In the center of that light sat the tartlet—a masterpiece of flaky, butter-rich pastry and glistening, ruby-red fruit. It smelled of caramelized sugar and citrus, an aroma so thick and agonizingly sweet that it felt like a physical weight in Vaun's empty stomach.
"Emma, chin up. Stop slouching. You look like a sack of potatoes," Elena snapped, her voice carrying the sharp, metallic edge it always acquired before a broadcast.
Five-year-old Emma Meyer sat in her high chair, though she was far too old for it. The chair was a prop, chosen because the high tray and oversized frame made her look smaller, more precious, and more "marketable" for the audience of Meyer's Elegant Eats. She was pale, her blonde hair pulled back into pigtails so tight they seemed to strain the very skin of her forehead.
"Mommy, my tummy hurts," Emma whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans on the light rigs.
"Your tummy hurts because it's empty, and it's empty because we are about to show two hundred thousand people how much you love this tart," Elena said, her eyes fixed on the camera's viewfinder. She didn't look at her daughter; she looked at the image of her daughter. "Vaun! Get the reflector. The shadows on her jawline are too heavy. We need her looking ethereal, not gaunt. We're losing the 'Blessed' glow."
Vaun stepped into the light. He was a tall boy for seven, with a quiet intensity in his eyes that most adults found unsettling. He picked up the silver reflector disc, his arms already aching from the forty-minute setup. He was hungry, too—a deep, gnawing ache that felt like a cold stone sitting in the pit of his stomach. But Vaun had learned the first rule of being a Meyer: Hunger is a tool. Hunger makes the "First Bite" reaction shot look like an act of divine revelation.
"Okay, going live in five... four... three..."
Elena's face shifted instantly. The scowl vanished, replaced by a radiant, maternal glow that was as artificial as the flavoring in the tart. She hit the Go Live button on her tablet, and the Meyer family vanished, replaced by the Meyer Brand.
"Hello, my Elegant Eaters!" Elena chirped, her voice instantly shifting into a sugary, high-octane trill. "Tonight, the Meyer kitchen is exploring the 'Sacred Crust.' And look at my little angel! Emma has been begging me for a taste of our new Sunrise Tartlet, haven't you, sweetie?"
Emma performed. She reached for the tart with trembling fingers, her eyes wide. She took a tiny, bird-like bite, her expression shifting into one of exaggerated, blissful delight. "It's so yummy, Mommy!" she squeaked, the rehearsed line coming out perfectly.
Vaun smiled for the camera from the periphery, holding the reflector steady. As the hearts and likes began to cascade down the screen of the monitoring tablet, Vaun felt a strange vibration in his chest. It wasn't the equipment. It was a physical surge of warmth, a biological hum that made his skin tingle. It was a caloric surge of pure, unfiltered validation. For those few minutes, he wasn't Asset 402 or a background helper. He was part of the light.
Then, it happened.
As Emma held the tart, a stray draft from the apartment's poorly sealed window threatened to blow the delicate dusting of powdered sugar off the fruit. If the sugar blew, the shot was ruined. Elena's eyes flared with panic.
Vaun didn't think. He didn't move. He simply willed the air to stop.
The air in the kitchen didn't just still; it became a solid, heavy presence. The sugar on the tart stayed perfectly in place, frozen in time. More than that, the steam rising from a nearby pot of tea didn't dissipate—it began to swirl in a tight, mesmerizing halo around Emma's head, caught in a localized vortex of Vaun's making.
"Look at that!" Elena breathed, her eyes lighting up as she saw the viewer count jump. 25k... 30k... 40k. "The 'Blessed' energy is manifesting! My son is showing us the wind of heaven!"
Vaun felt the surge hit him like a bolt of lightning. The more the follower count ticked up, the more he felt the air respond to him. He wasn't just holding a reflector; he was holding the atmosphere itself. He realized then that he didn't want the food. He wanted the feeling he got when the viewer count spiked. He wanted to be the reason people clicked. He wanted the world to look at him until he was so full of their attention that he never had to feel the cold stone in his stomach again.
The moment the "Live" icon vanished, the light died. Elena's smile dropped like a fallen mask.
"Wrap it up. Emma, go to your room. If you've gained even an ounce from that bite, we're going back to the lemon-water cleanse," Elena said, already scrolling through the engagement metrics.
"Can I eat the rest of the tart?" Emma asked, her voice hopeful and small.
"Absolutely not. That's for the thumbnail shoot tomorrow. Vaun, put it in the display fridge. Lock it. And keep your hands off it, or I'll tell the followers you're being a 'Difficult Hero' and see how many likes you get then."
Vaun took the tart. He felt the air around it. Usually, the steam would rise in a straight line, but as he held it, he noticed the air bending to his every thought. With a tiny, subconscious flick of his mind, he made the air swirl around the tart, cooling it instantly. He didn't want the food. He wanted the 40,000 people.
The phone rang an hour later. It was a sound that would change the trajectory of the Meyer legacy forever.
Elena answered it in the kitchen. Vaun stood by the door, listening. He had become an expert at eavesdropping; in a house where information was currency, he couldn't afford to be poor.
"Yes... this is she. Vought? Vought International?" Elena's voice went up an octave, a frantic, breathless pitch. "You saw the 'Special Announcement' video? The steam halo? Yes... yes, he's very gifted. An 'Aero' phenotype? I knew it. I always knew he was chosen. We've been praying for his manifestation."
She looked through the doorway and saw Vaun. Her eyes weren't filled with a mother's love. They were filled with the predatory spark of a manager who had just found a star.
"The Red River Institute? A full scholarship? And a talent stipend for the family?" Elena's hand was shaking as she gripped the phone. "When can you pick him up?"
She hung up and practically lunged at Vaun, grabbing his shoulders. Her nails dug into his skin. "Vaun, did you hear? Vought. The biggest company in the world. They think you're one of the 'Blessed.' They want to turn you into a legend. They want to give you a stage."
"Do I have to go?" Vaun asked. It was a test. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it. He wanted to see if there was any part of her that would miss him.
"Do you have to?" Elena laughed, a high, sharp sound. "Vaun, think of the fans. Millions of them. Millions of people who will love you more than anyone else ever could. You'll be Aero. You'll be the wind they breathe. Don't you want that? Don't you want to be the one everyone looks at?"
The word "fans" acted like a key in a lock. Vaun felt the air in the hallway sharpen. He looked at his mother—at her hunger, her greed, her obsession with the lens. He realized then that he was just a different kind of calorie to her.
"I want them to look at me," Vaun said, his voice cold and certain.
"Then you're going. We'll tell the followers it's a 'Hero's Call.' The engagement will be astronomical."
The black Vought SUV arrived the following morning. It didn't belong in their neighborhood. It looked like a shark swimming in a koi pond—sleek, predatory, and expensive.
A man in a charcoal suit, Mr. Vogel, stepped out. He carried a silver briefcase and didn't look at the trash on the sidewalk or the neighbors peering through their blinds. He walked straight to the Meyer door.
"Mrs. Meyer. Vaun," Vogel said, his voice a smooth, corporate baritone. "We've reviewed the footage. The atmospheric displacement you exhibited during the stream was quite remarkable for an unrefined seven-year-old. Vought sees a great deal of potential in the 'Aero' phenotype."
"He's a natural," Elena said, pushing Vaun forward. She was holding her phone, recording the encounter for her "Behind the Scenes" stories. "Say hello to Mr. Vogel, Vaun. Tell him how excited you are to serve the public."
"Hello," Vaun said. He felt the air around Vogel. It was heavy, pressurized. The man felt different—chosen.
"Red River is a demanding environment, Vaun," Vogel said, looking down at the boy. "It's where the chosen go to become legends. You'll have the best food, the best training, and more attention than you can possibly handle. Is that what you want?"
Vaun looked at his mother. She was checking the lighting on her phone, making sure the "Vought" logo on Vogel's briefcase was in the shot. He looked at Emma, who was standing at the top of the stairs, clutching a tattered teddy bear, her eyes wide with fear she didn't have the words for.
"I want to be the best," Vaun said.
"Spoken like a true Seven candidate," Vogel smiled.
As Vaun packed his single suitcase, he stopped in Emma's room. She was sitting on her bed, her small legs dangling.
"Are you leaving because I was bad at the tart video?" she asked, her bottom lip trembling.
"No, Em," Vaun said, kneeling in front of her. He felt a rare surge of genuine emotion—a protective, jagged warmth. He reached out and, with a tiny flick of his mind, made the air around Emma feel like a warm, soft blanket. "I'm leaving so I can buy us a house where the lights stay off. I'm going to be so famous that Vought will have to do whatever I say. And when I'm big enough, I'm coming back to get you. I promise."
"Will you be on the big TV?"
"I'll be the only thing on the TV," Vaun said.
He walked out of the apartment without looking back at his mother. He didn't need a hug; he needed the followers. He needed the fans.
The moment he stepped into the back of the SUV, the leather smelling of luxury and ozone, he felt it. His mother had just posted the announcement. Across the city, across the country, thousands of phones chirped.
[FOLLOWER COUNT: 120... 150... 300... 1,000]
The air inside the SUV suddenly felt dense, rich with potential. Vaun reached out with his mind and found the air circulating through the car's high-end climate control system. He didn't just feel it; he gripped it. With a subtle flick of his will, he stopped the air from moving in the small space between the driver and the passenger.
The air pressure in the car dropped instantly. Vogel's ears popped, and the driver gasped, his hand going to his chest as his lungs found nothing but an empty void to draw from. Vaun watched them with a clinical, detached curiosity. He wasn't hurting them; he was testing the weight of the air.
"Careful, kid," Vogel said, his eyes widening with a mix of surprise and delight as he tapped his tablet to record the spike in Vaun's vitals. "Save some for the cameras at the institute."
"I'm just getting started," Vaun said, leaning back into the leather.
He wasn't hungry anymore. He was Aero. And the world was about to start breathing his air.