Neonverse: The Glitch
The city was loud in the way only a living city can be.
Not just noise — but movement. Screens flickered across glass towers, trains hummed beneath the streets, conversations overlapped in cafés, and footsteps created an endless rhythm along the sidewalks. Digital billboards painted the air in shifting colors, reflecting off puddles left by last night’s rain.
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To most people, it was just another day.
But to Zaya, the city never felt like “just” anything.
She noticed the spaces between things — the pauses in laughter, the hesitations before someone spoke, the way people adjusted themselves when they thought others were watching.
That morning, she and Kairo had promised each other a rare break from being protectors. No missions. No Neonverse energy. No glowing crests revealing who they really were.
Just two friends moving through the city like everyone else.
Zaya dressed simply, but true to herself — layered fabrics, soft colors that didn’t perfectly match but somehow belonged together. A loose sweater slipped slightly over one shoulder, and her shoes were two shades apart, intentionally chosen. To her, harmony didn’t mean sameness.
Kairo leaned against the doorframe waiting for her, wearing a relaxed jacket over a graphic tee, his sneakers scuffed from constant motion. His style always looked like he was ready to move — because he usually was.
“You ready?” he asked with a half-smile.
Zaya nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Today we’re just people.”
Spark floated near the ceiling, invisible to the world but visible to them — a small glowing presence that pulsed gently like a heartbeat.
“Just people,” Spark echoed softly.
They stepped outside.
The air was crisp, carrying the smell of roasted coffee and warm street food. A busker played a mellow tune on a keyboard, and somewhere down the block a group of teens laughed too loudly at something on a phone screen.
Normal.
Alive.
Familiar.
But ten minutes into their walk, Zaya felt it.
Not a sound.
Not a sight.
A feeling.
Like the emotional temperature had dropped a few degrees.
She slowed slightly.
People weren’t just walking — they were checking reflections. In windows. In phones. In each other’s eyes.
A girl passed them, tugging at her sleeves as if hiding the brightness of her shirt. Two boys paused near a storefront, one saying quietly, “Maybe switch the jacket. It’s a lot.”
A mother adjusted her child’s hat to a neutral color, murmuring, “This one matches better.”
None of it was loud.
None of it was cruel.
And that’s what made it heavier.
It was quiet self-editing. Quiet shrinking.
Zaya’s chest tightened.
She couldn’t explain it yet, but something in the city’s emotional current was off-balance.
Kairo noticed her expression.
“You’re feeling something.”
She gave a small nod.
“Do you ever feel like a place is breathing differently?”
Kairo glanced around. At first he saw nothing unusual — just people moving through their routines. But then he noticed how often people glanced at others before settling on their own choices.
Like they were asking silent permission to exist.
Spark dimmed slightly as they floated beside them.
“The city’s glow is softer today,” Spark whispered.
They reached a sneaker court where a small crowd had gathered. Not cheering. Not arguing. Just watching.
A tall figure leaned casually against a painted wall, phone in hand, filming short clips. His outfit was perfectly coordinated — sharp lines, controlled palette, nothing out of place. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.
“Clean.”
“Trying too hard.”
“This works.”
“This doesn’t.”
Each comment was short. Controlled. Final.
And every time he spoke, someone in the crowd looked down at themselves.
A boy subtly rubbed at his bright shoelaces with his thumb.
A girl zipped her colorful jacket halfway closed.
No one protested.
No one challenged him.
They adjusted.
Kairo exhaled slowly.
“He’s rating them.”
Zaya watched the faces instead of the figure. The micro-expressions. The flicker of doubt. The tiny withdrawals of confidence.
“He’s not loud,” she said quietly.
“He doesn’t need to be.”
Spark’s glow dimmed another shade.
“He’s not taking anything,” Spark murmured.
“They’re handing it to him.”
Zaya looked at a child nearby wearing mismatched socks — one with stars, one with lightning bolts. The child noticed others staring and quickly pulled their pant legs down to hide them.
That small motion hit her harder than anything else.
Something fragile was forming in the air.
And Zaya knew that feeling.
It was what came right before hope started to crack.
She didn’t say it out loud.
But deep in her chest, something warm flickered.
The earliest whisper of Lumina Bloom.
NeonVerse - The SHIFT - Part 2
NeonVerse - The CHOICE - Part 3
NeonVerse - The MOVEMENT - Part 4
The city looked alive with color, screens, and sound — but Zaya noticed something no one else did. Beneath the neon glow, people were shrinking themselves in small, quiet ways. Changing outfits. Softening voices. Asking silent permission to exist.
When Zaya, Kairo, and Spark step out for a normal day, they begin to see a pattern forming — one that could dim an entire city if no one interrupts it.
This is where the Neonverse story begins: not with a battle, but with a feeling that something isn’t right.
