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DAYBREAK

I returned to the office building feeling the residue of the strange man beside me in the convenience store — that quiet energy, the rizz he carried like he belonged somewhere bigger than here. I shoved the memory aside, focused on the meeting I was supposed to join. Marisol, our boss, was already gathering people in the glass-walled conference room, her expression tight, serious.

As I settled into my chair, I glanced around at the other employees: Rex fidgeting in his seat, Juno silently tapping her pen. The meeting started — updates, quarterly goals, tech implementations. My fingers twitched, but I forced myself to stay present.

Then the building shuddered.

It started with a low groan — almost like the whole structure was waking up. My coffee cup trembled on the table. Glass rattled in the frame. The vibration grew, becoming a sudden, violent quake that knocked papers off desks, sent monitors sliding. People gasped; someone yelled, “Evacuate!”

The air filled with panicked movement. Chairs scraped. Fluorescent lights flickered. The conference room windows shook, the city outside warping with every pulse of the building.

Marisol’s voice cracked through the chaos: “Everyone, get out — now!”

We spilled into the corridors. The floor felt unsteady, like walking on a trampoline. My heart hammered. I saw coworkers ducking, grabbing bags, stumbling.

Outside, the ground swayed. The air smelled like dust and burning circuitry — some sort of electrical hum underneath the tremor, like the building’s tech was fighting to stay online. The company had already deployed LuraRobots — sleek, spider-like stabilization bots that skittered across the pavement, their joints glowing with soft blue light. Their purpose was to regulate some compromised frequency in the building’s systems, so I’d been told.

As I pushed past a throng of panicked people, alarm bells ringing in my ears, I felt a strong hand grab my arm.

“Daybreak.” The voice was calm, too calm. I turned, and there he was — the man in the hoodie, standing as if he’d been expecting this.

“What—” I started, but before I could ask, the entire building groaned again, louder this time.

A massive chunk of concrete — a section of the façade — broke loose high above us. It fell in slow motion, debris slicing through the sky. My stomach twisted.

The hoodie man didn’t hesitate. With the grace of someone who’s always ready, he shoved me aside. I stumbled, turned, and watched in horror as the concrete crashed exactly where I’d been standing a second before. The dust bloom was deafening, pieces of rebar and rock flying into the street.

He reached for me, steadying me by the shoulder, and stared into my eyes — his violet gaze calm, unshaken. “You okay?” he asked, voice low.

I coughed, my lungs tight. “Yeah … thanks to you.”

He shrugged, nonchalant. “Wouldn’t leave you behind.”

A few seconds later, the LuraRobots hummed louder as they extended arms to catch and redirect falling debris. Their stabilization fields flickered in waves, pulling stray concrete fragments away like magnetic shields.

Behind us, sirens wailed, and emergency crews poured in. People were being directed away, and the chaos was turning to organized evacuation.

I looked at him, really looked, for the first time — the dark hoodie framing his face, hair disheveled, eyes calm like nothing in the world fazed him. My chest still raced.

He gave me a half-smile. “See you around, Daybreak.”

And then, he simply turned and walked away, slipping into the crowd. My mind reeled — who was he, really? Why did he save me like that? And how could I possibly repay him when I didn’t even know his name? Wait..

How does he know my name?

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