The city didn’t change overnight.
But once Zaya noticed it, she couldn’t unsee it.
Here is PART 1 if you missed it
The guy in the black turtleneck stared at them for three long seconds. Then he did something worse than arguing. He turned back to his phone, dismissing them entirely, and continued filming the next person who stepped up to skate.
Like they didn't matter. Like their glow was just another trend he'd already categorized and moved past.
Zaya felt the sting of it, sharp and immediate. Not because she needed his validation, but because she recognized the technique. Erasure through indifference. It was more effective than any insult.
Kairo's electricity flickered and died. He looked at his hands, frustrated. "Did he just—"
"Yeah," Zaya said quietly. The glow around her fingers was fading too, retreating back into her skin like a tide going out.
Spark floated between them, smaller now, dimmer. "That felt bad."
"Come on," Zaya said, turning away from the court. "Let's go."
They walked in silence for a while, the energy that had sparked between them dissipating into the afternoon air. The city continued around them, oblivious. Traffic moved. People laughed. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Normal life, carrying on like nothing had happened.
But something had happened. Zaya could feel it sitting heavy in her chest.
They wandered without direction, letting their feet choose the path. Down a side street lined with murals that had been tagged over. Past a community garden where someone had planted flowers in old paint cans. Through an alley that smelled like rain and cooking oil.
Zaya kept noticing things. Small things. The kind of details that most people would miss but that felt significant somehow, like pieces of a puzzle she didn't know she was solving.
In a small plaza near the transit station, a group of girls sat together on the edge of a fountain, iced drinks sweating in their hands. One of them wore a bright mustard-yellow cardigan layered over a floral dress. The colors clashed in a way that took confidence — bold, intentional, joyful.
But then a woman in a sleek gray blazer walked past. She didn't stop. Didn't stare. Didn't say a single word.
But the girl in the yellow cardigan felt it. Zaya watched it happen in real time. The girl's hand went to the hem of the cardigan, tugging it down, smoothing the fabric nervously. Then came the laugh — too loud, too forced, trying to cover discomfort with humor. "I look ridiculous, don't I?"
Her friends rushed in with reassurances. "No! It's cute! You look great!" But the girl had already crossed her arms, pulling the cardigan tighter around herself. The ease in her body language was gone. She'd edited herself mid-moment, and no one had even said a word.
Kairo saw it too. "She just changed."
"Yeah," Zaya said, her throat tight. "She didn't need anyone to tell her to."
They kept walking.
Farther down the street, near a coffee shop with floor-to-ceiling windows, a boy stood with his phone propped against a planter. He couldn't have been older than fifteen. Red hoodie, high-tops with neon green laces tied in complex patterns. He was filming himself practicing a dance routine, something he'd probably spent hours perfecting in his bedroom mirror.
He moved well. Fluid, confident, full of that specific kind of joy that comes from doing something just because it makes you feel alive. Not for followers or likes or validation. Just for himself.
Zaya slowed, watching through the window's reflection as he hit the final move. He was breathless, grinning as he grabbed his phone to replay the video.
He watched it once. Smiled.
Watched it again. The smile faded slightly.
A third time. He frowned, tilted his head, analyzing himself the way someone might analyze evidence. And then his thumb moved across the screen.
Deleted.
Not because the dance was bad. Not because he messed up. But because something about it felt too visible. Too much. Too him.
He shoved the phone in his pocket, glanced around to see if anyone had been watching, and walked away with his hands stuffed deep in his hoodie. Head down. Shoulders curved inward.
Kairo exhaled sharply. "He was good."
"I know."
"Then why would he—"
"Because he saw himself through someone else's eyes," Zaya said quietly. "And decided he didn't measure up to a standard he probably can't even name."
Spark pressed closer to Zaya's shoulder. "He just erased his own joy."
They walked faster now, as if movement could somehow shake the heaviness settling over them. But everywhere they looked, they saw it. The pattern repeating itself in endless variations.
Outside a sneaker shop, three teens sat on the curb comparing shoes. Their sneakers were loud — neon pinks, electric blues, holographic finishes that caught the light like prisms. The kind of shoes you wear when you want people to see you. When you want to announce yourself.
But their conversation wasn't excited. It was cautious, almost apologetic.
"Do you think these are too much?" one of them asked, lifting a foot to examine a pair of bright yellow high-tops.
"For what?"
"For like... walking around. You know. Just being out."
A pause. The other two considered this seriously, like it was a legitimate concern.
"Maybe swap the laces. Tone it down a little."
"Yeah. Good idea."
They weren't talking about style. They were talking about safety. Safety from judgment. Safety from standing out. Safety from being too much for a world that seemed to prefer less.
Zaya's chest felt like it was caving in. "Kairo, this isn't just happening at the sneaker court."
"I know."
"This is everywhere."
Kairo clenched his fists, heat building beneath his ribs again. Not his Thunder Pulse. Not yet. But close. The feeling that came right before lightning. "People are policing themselves. No one's even forcing them."
"That's the worst part," Zaya said. "They're doing it because they think they have to. Because somewhere along the way, they learned that being themselves was risky."
Spark stopped moving entirely, hovering in place between them. "If people forget they have permission to be themselves..."
Zaya finished the thought, her voice barely above a whisper. "They'll stop believing they ever did."
By the time they reached their rooftop — the quiet space tucked between two aging brick buildings where the noise of the city softened into a distant hum — the sky had deepened into full twilight. The sun had set, leaving behind streaks of orange and purple that were quickly fading to indigo.
Zaya climbed the narrow metal stairwell first, her hand trailing along the cool railing. The smell of street food and rain still clung to the air, mixing with something earthier — maybe the rooftop garden someone had planted a few buildings over. Somewhere below, a train rumbled past, its rhythm familiar and grounding.
At the top, the city spread out before them like a living organism. Office windows blinked on and off as people finished their workdays, some staying late, some heading home to families or empty apartments. Neon signs glowed in pinks and blues and greens, advertising everything and nothing. Traffic moved in slow rivers of red and white light, brake lights and headlights creating patterns that might have been beautiful if you didn't think too hard about all the people trapped inside them, going through motions.
From up here, the city looked alive. Vibrant. Full of possibility.
But Zaya knew better now. She knew what was happening in the spaces between the lights. In the quiet moments when people looked at themselves and decided they needed to be smaller.
Kairo sat on the ledge, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He was quiet for a long time, just watching. Below, a group of people crossed the street, glancing at each other nervously before one of them laughed. The others joined in, but only after checking to make sure it was okay. Like laughter needed permission.
"This can't just be about that guy at the court," Kairo said finally. "Even if he started it, people are listening because they were already afraid. He just gave them a reason to act on it."
Zaya thought about the child with the lightning-bolt socks. That image was burned into her mind, wouldn't leave her alone. A six-year-old learning to hide. Learning that being different meant being wrong.
"He's not the cause," she said quietly. "He's the symptom. People were already afraid of being seen. He just gave that fear a voice. Made it feel legitimate. Official."
Spark floated between them, unusually still. "If someone controls what's acceptable, they control how bright people allow themselves to shine."
Kairo turned that over in his mind, the way he did with complex problems in the Neonverse. Breaking them down into components. Looking for the weak point. "So what are they waiting for? What do people need to stop shrinking?"
Zaya looked out over the glowing city, her voice soft but certain. "Permission. Someone to show them it's safe to be themselves again. Or maybe just a space where they can remember what that feels like."
The idea came quietly, not as a lightning bolt but as something that had been building all day without them realizing it. A bloom opening in darkness.
"A space," Zaya said, turning to face them both. "Just a space where no one is ranked or filmed or judged. Where people can show up as they are and that's enough."
Kairo's expression shifted. That familiar spark of momentum was returning to his eyes, the restlessness that always preceded action. "A reset. Not online where everything's permanent and searchable. Real life. Face to face."
Spark's glow brightened for the first time all evening, pulsing with cautious hope. "A gathering. No labels. No standards. Just people existing in the same space."
Zaya felt warmth beginning to build in her chest. Not her Lumina Bloom. Not yet. But hope. The kind that feels fragile at first, like maybe if you breathe too hard it'll disappear.
"We don't make it a big thing," she said, the idea taking shape as she spoke. "We don't brand it or promote it or turn it into a movement with a hashtag. We just invite people. Quietly. Person to person."
"Tell them to come as they are," Kairo added, sitting up straighter now, energy returning to his posture. "No filters. No edits. No performances. Just show up."
"Just existence," Zaya said. "Just being."
Spark zipped around them in excited loops, leaving trails of light in the darkening air. "Yes. Let's do this."
They didn't make flyers. Didn't post online. Didn't create a campaign or a promotional video or even a group chat. They just talked to people.
The next day, Zaya mentioned it gently in conversations as she moved through the city. To the barista at the café who always wore bold, mismatched earrings — little dangly planets on one side, geometric shapes on the other. The barista's eyes lit up when Zaya asked, "If there was a place where no one judged what you wore or how you expressed yourself, would you come?"
"Are you serious?" the barista asked, pausing mid-pour.
"Completely."
"Then yeah. I'd come. When?"
To the girl sketching outfit designs in her notebook at the park, colored pencils spread across the bench beside her. The girl looked up, startled to be noticed, then hopeful when Zaya explained.
"No one filming?" she asked carefully.
"No one filming. No one rating. Just people."
The girl's shoulders relaxed. "Okay. Yeah. I'd like that."
To the boy customizing his bike outside a convenience store, wrapping the frame in strips of colored tape in no particular pattern, just seeing what felt right. He looked at Zaya like she'd just offered him oxygen.
"When?" was all he asked.
"Soon," Zaya promised. "I'll let you know."
Every conversation was different, but the response was the same. Not skepticism. Longing. Like people had been waiting for permission they didn't know how to ask for.
Kairo spread the word his way, rolling through skate spots and basketball courts, talking to people mid-trick, mid-game, mid-motion. He didn't make a big speech. Just mentioned it casually, like it was no big deal even though it was.
"Yo, we're doing this thing. Just a space to exist. No rankings. No ratings. Show up as yourself."
People didn't ask many questions. They just nodded.
"I'm there."
"For real?"
"For real."
Spark connected with the younger crowd, the middle schoolers and elementary kids who still remembered what it felt like to play without worrying about being cool. Kids trusted Spark instantly. There was something about Spark's energy — playful, warm, safe — that made people feel seen without being judged.
When Spark said, "It's about being real," kids believed it. And they told their friends. And their friends told their friends.
Word spread the way real things spread. Not through algorithms or influencers. Through whispered conversations and genuine connection. Through people who were tired of performing and just wanted to breathe.
That night, they returned to the rooftop — their planning spot, the place where they could see the whole city spread out before them and think clearly.
The temperature had dropped. Zaya pulled her hoodie tighter, sitting cross-legged on the ledge. Kairo paced back and forth, the way he always did when he was working through something. Spark floated between them, glowing brighter now that the sun had fully set and there was less need to hide.
"So we've talked to people," Kairo said, counting on his fingers. "Word's spreading. But we don't have a time. We don't have a real plan for what happens when everyone shows up."
"Tomorrow," Zaya said, the certainty settling in her chest. "The square near the transit station. The one with the fountain."
"Why there?"
"Because it's open. Because it's public. Because no one can say we're hiding or making this exclusive." She looked at the city lights, thinking. "And because it's right in the middle of everything. People walk through there all day. If we're going to do this, it should be visible."
Kairo stopped pacing. "What time?"
"After school lets out. Maybe four? When people are off work, when kids are free. When the city's actually alive."
Spark spun in an excited circle. "And we just... show up? That's the plan?"
"We show up," Zaya confirmed. "And we wait. See who comes. See if people are ready."
"And if no one comes?" Kairo asked, not doubtful, just practical. Always thinking through the possibilities.
Zaya met his eyes. "Then we tried. But I don't think that's going to happen."
She thought about all the conversations they'd had today. The barista's eyes lighting up. The girl with the sketchbook looking hopeful. The boy with the bike asking "when?" like he'd been waiting his whole life for this invitation.
"People are ready," Zaya said quietly. "They've been ready. They just needed someone to go first."
Kairo nodded slowly, then smiled — that fierce, determined smile that meant he was all in. "Okay. Tomorrow at four. The square."
"Tomorrow at four," Zaya repeated.
Spark floated between their hands, connecting them. "The Mismatch Movement begins."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the city breathe below them. Traffic moved. Lights flickered. People lived their lives, unaware that something was shifting. That tomorrow, a small group might gather and remember what it felt like to exist without apologizing for it.
"We should head back," Kairo said finally. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be big."
Zaya stood, brushing off her pants. "Yeah. Let's go home."
Home. The Neonverse. Where they could be fully themselves, powers glowing, no need to hide. But tomorrow, they'd come back. And maybe, just maybe, they could help this city remember that it didn't have to hide either.
They made their way down the stairwell together, Spark lighting the way. At the bottom, in the alley where no one could see, Zaya placed her hand on the brick wall. Her Lumina Bloom sparked to life — soft, gentle, opening a shimmering doorway of light and color.
The portal hummed, waiting.
"See you tomorrow," Kairo said, stepping toward the light.
"Tomorrow," Zaya agreed.
And they stepped through, back to the Neonverse, back to the electric pulse and neon skylines and the world where they belonged.
But tomorrow, they'd return.
And the city would be different.
It had to be.
