Ground and Conduit

The warehouse stood at the edge of the river, a concrete shell long forgotten by the city. Its windows were jagged, walls stained with rust and watermarks, and the air inside smelled faintly of damp metal and mildew. No lights. No cameras. Just silence, broken only by the slow churn of dark water nearby.

“This place is off the main grid,” Haruto said, adjusting a handheld monitor. “Minimal residual current. If something goes wrong, it won’t cascade into the city.”

“Good,” Hina replied, her voice quiet but steady. She stepped inside first, letting her bare feet press against the cold concrete. Solid. Reliable. She exhaled and pressed her palm to the floor, feeling the faint, dormant currents sleeping deep beneath the surface.

Renji lingered near the entrance. His fingers flexed nervously. Sparks of static danced faintly, teasing the air.

“Feels empty,” he said, voice low. “Too empty.”

“Empty is good,” Hina replied. “Less to hurt.”

Sunlight filtered through broken panels, forming thin beams that caught the dust drifting lazily in the air. The silence amplified every sound: the scrape of boots, the creak of a rusted beam, the distant slap of water against the riverbank.

Haruto set down his equipment on a crate. “Okay. Start small. Renji, you generate. Hina, you ground. No improvising.”

Renji nodded. His palms tingled with anticipation, a shiver running up his arms. He flexed his fingers, and a faint spark jumped between them. The sound echoed through the warehouse like a tiny explosion.

Hina felt it immediately. The current woke, stretching toward Renji like a muscle responding to command, probing, testing boundaries.

“Slow,” she said. “Don’t pull.”

“I’m not,” Renji replied, voice tight. “It’s just… answering.”

The spark grew brighter. The lights that shouldn’t exist flickered along the walls—old emergency strips sputtering to life. Dust swirled in the air, tiny motes catching the arcs like embers.

“Renji,” Haruto warned, glancing at the monitor. “That’s already more than baseline.”

“I’m trying to stop,” Renji said, panic creeping into his voice. The electricity jerked unpredictably, twisting toward the nearest metal beams.

The current surged, louder than the hum of the river outside. Hina dropped to one knee, pressing both hands flat against the floor. “Down! Go down!” she shouted, forcing every ounce of her focus into the concrete. Pain flared up her arms, sharp and burning, like molten iron flowing beneath her skin.

For a moment, the electricity split—half rushing toward Renji, half clawing at the walls, scraping along metal supports. A beam overhead groaned. Sparks jumped dangerously close.

“Hina!” Renji shouted, fear lacing his words.

She clenched her jaw, drawing on every instinct she had ever felt, every subtle resonance of the city’s energy beneath her. Slowly, painstakingly, she wove the current into the ground. The air seemed to pulse around her fingers, trembling, resisting, then yielding.

Then Renji did something she hadn’t expected. Instead of pushing back, he let go.

The surge collapsed inward, snapping harmlessly into the concrete. The lights died. Silence slammed back into the warehouse, heavy and oppressive. Dust settled. Even the distant river sounded muted.

Hina gasped, collapsing onto her hands, breath ragged. Her arms shook with fatigue and the sharp aftertaste of energy.

Renji knelt beside her. “Are you okay?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah… just… overwhelmed.”

Haruto stared at his monitor, pale. “That shouldn’t have happened. The energy spiked like it was being pulled from somewhere else.”

Renji swallowed hard. “Like someone tugged on it.”

The warehouse creaked softly as if the building itself had exhaled.

Hina sat back on her heels, tracing faint sparks along the floor with her fingers. “We’re not synchronized.”

“No,” Renji said quietly. “We’re fighting the same thing… from opposite sides.”

Haruto looked up. “And something out there noticed.”

They froze, listening. Beneath the concrete, a low hum rolled faintly—too steady, too deliberate. Then it faded.

Hina slowly stood, brushing herself off. “We need to learn control. Together.”

Renji nodded. “Before he decides to test us again.”

Outside, the river flowed on, dark and indifferent, reflecting shards of sunlight. The world felt normal, but the undercurrent of power lingered, restless.

They didn’t linger at the warehouse. No one said it aloud, but all three felt the lingering awareness—something had briefly turned its attention toward them, then looked away. A predator studying prey, patient.

Walking back toward the city, Hina’s boots scraped softly against the pavement. Each step steadied her, grounding her against the restless pulse beneath Tokyo. The current moved still, like water bending around rocks, subtle but aware.

Renji kept glancing over his shoulder. “Does it always feel like that?” he asked finally. “Like the city is… listening?”

Hina nodded. “Since yesterday.”

Haruto stopped, checking the monitor again. The screen flickered, then stabilized. “Energy levels are normal now. Too normal. Like someone closed a valve.”

Renji exhaled slowly. “He knows we exist.”

That night, the city didn’t explode again.

Instead, it whispered. Small failures punctuated the quiet: traffic lights froze on red, an apartment block lost power for exactly thirty seconds, a hospital backup generator kicked on then shut itself off just as suddenly. Controlled. Deliberate. Calculated.

Hina sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, eyes closed, palm resting on the tatami. She wasn’t pulling. She wasn’t pushing. She was listening. The hum beneath her feet felt tense, constrained, like a predator on a leash.

A sharp knock at the door startled her. Haruto opened it to find two police officers in the hallway.

“Good evening,” one said. “We’re checking on reports of unusual electrical activity.”

Hina felt it instantly—the subtle tightening beneath the floor, the faint pulse of surveillance, controlled and aware.

“My sister and I were home all evening,” Haruto said calmly. “No devices running. No incidents.”

The officers nodded, made a note, and moved on. The apartment exhaled once the door closed.

“He’s redirecting attention,” Renji whispered from the corner. “Keeping people looking everywhere except where it matters.”

“Which means he’s planning something bigger,” Hina replied.

Later, when everyone slept, Renji stepped onto the balcony. Tokyo stretched out before him: lights blinking, transformers humming, every node of the city pulsing with restrained power.

He raised his hand slightly. The electricity stirred, dancing along cables and street lamps, seeking freedom.

Then it stopped.

Pressure settled over his senses, firm, unmistakable.

You’re reaching too far.

The thought didn’t need words. It came as a wave through the current itself. Renji lowered his hand immediately, heart hammering.

Inside, Hina sat upright in bed, breath sharp. She felt it too—not the electricity surging, but something asserting control, drawing boundaries, reminding her of a predator nearby.

“He’s close,” she whispered.

Deep beneath a sealed substation, Dr. Kaoru Ishikawa stood amid a lattice of flowing current, monitors surrounding him like a halo of electricity. The city was a living map under his control.

Two points glowed faintly on the screens. Resistances. Not anomalies.

“So you’ve found each other,” he murmured, voice layered with static hum. “Ground and conduit.”

The currents responded to his presence, tightening across the city grid, subtle but unmistakable.

“Learn quickly,” Ishikawa said. “The city won’t wait.”

Back in the apartment, Hina and Renji sat in the dim glow of a single lamp.

“We can’t just react anymore,” Renji said. “We need to understand him. Learn how he sees the city, how he moves the energy.”

Hina nodded, jaw set. “And we need to be ready. Next time, he won’t just test the system—he’ll force us to respond under pressure.”

She placed her hand on the floor. The faint hum answered, uneasy but responsive.

And somewhere in the dark, the Master of Electricity began to move his pieces.