The absence of care.

(Kenneth)

The hallway cracked open like a ribcage—support beams half-bent, heat soaked into the walls, and that low electrical hum of something wrong lurking past the smoke.

Kenneth rolled his neck.

His gauntlets hissed, runes already glowing faint orange from the last guy who tried him. Steam curled from his forearms. His blood wasn't boiling—it was the boil.

Then the new one stepped through.

Tall. Calm. Dressed in dust-gray robes etched with wave patterns that shimmered when he moved. His hands trailed through the air like he was painting music.

Name: Cyneth.

Unco: Flowstate. He could slow the world around him—not stop it, just bend its tempo. Cut reactions. Warp rhythm. Turn speed into confusion.

Cyneth spoke like someone who didn't raise his voice often.

"Your fists make noise," he said. "But noise isn't music."