The light in Providenc didn't creep in; it descended. In a city where the spires reached so high they altered the local weather patterns, dawn was a vertical event.

  Rumani felt the shift in atmospheric pressure before he felt the hand on his shoulder. It was a subtle tightening of the air—the city's morning "inhale" as millions of climate control systems in the residential districts cycled on simultaneously.

  "Rumani," a soft voice broke through the hum of the city. "The registry doesn't wait for the sun to clear the High-Rises."

  He opened his eyes to see Barbara. Even in the dim, early light of their apartment, she moved with a grace that felt grounded—a necessary anchor for a man who spent his days fighting the urge to float. In accordance with their household’s private standards, she was dressed in a modest, floor-length robe, her presence a calm constant in the face of the 30x scale world outside their window.

  "I’m up," Rumani said, offering her the "Smiling Anchor" expression that was mandated by Protocol 003. It wasn't a mask; it was a choice.

  He rose and began the morning ritual of Protocol 007. In the privacy of his dressing area, he transitioned into his bank teller attire. It was a crisp, high-collared white shirt and a dark, charcoal-grey vest that maintained his lean-muscular silhouette. No star today. Not yet. To the world at the teller window, he was just a man who ensured the ledgers balanced.

  The smell of breakfast pulled him downstairs. The kitchen was small—at least by the standards of the massive Providenc skyline—but it was warm.

  "Eggs and rye," Barbara said, placing a plate on the table. "And the news from the North Hub says the transit tubes are running at 104% capacity today. It's going to be a heavy morning at the bank."

  Rumani sat, his movements precise. He picked up his fork, feeling the weight of the metal. To anyone else, it was a utensil. To him, it was a sensory input. As he ate, he felt a faint, distant vibration through the soles of his shoes. It wasn't the transit tubes. It was a "flat" note—a harmonic drift coming from the sector’s residential grid.

  It was small. A whisper of a structural glitch.

  "Something's off-key," Rumani murmured, his "power-up" spiky hair catching the light as he tilted his head toward the window.

  Barbara paused, her hand on the coffee pot. She knew that look. "Is it the bank's vault again?"

  "No," Rumani said, his smile fading into a look of clinical focus. "It's the marrow of the city. Something in the spires is siphoning the frequency."

  Barbara set a steaming mug of coffee in front of Rumani, her brow furrowed as she looked toward the window. The skyline of Providenc loomed like a wall of glass and steel, the massive 30x scale of the buildings making the horizon feel miles higher than it should.

  "There’s talk down at the market registry," Barbara said softly, keeping her voice low. "A rumor that the 'Steel-Eaters' are back—localized siphoning in the foundations of the mid-level spires. They say the city’s harmonic sensors are being bypassed by some kind of dampening field. That would explain your 'flat note,' wouldn't it?"

  Rumani nodded slowly, his mind already calculating the structural load of the residential districts. "If they’re siphoning the high-grade alloy from the marrow of the spires, the vibration of the whole sector will shift. It’s a structural heist, Barbara. They’re stealing the safety of a hundred thousand people, one bolt at a time."

  The sound of shuffling feet and the soft drag of fabric on the floor interrupted them. Collin appeared in the kitchen doorway, his eyes half-closed and his hair a messy nest of sleep. He was hugging a well-worn stuffed bunny to his chest, the toy’s ears drooping over his small arm.

  "Morning, sleepyhead," Barbara smiled, her tone shifting instantly to maternal warmth.

  Collin let out a long yawn, stumbling toward his chair. He was wearing modest, full-length pajamas—navy blue with tiny white stars that mimicked the official registry emblem.

  "Dad," Collin mumbled, climbing onto his seat and plopping the bunny on the table. "Did you see the news before you went to bed? They said Omnihero was spotted hovering over the North Hub last night. They said he saved a transit pod from a power surge."

  Rumani offered his son the mandated "Smiling Anchor" expression, though inside, his senses were still vibrating with the harmonic drift he had felt earlier. "I heard something about that, pal. He’s always watching over the city, isn't he?"

  "He’s the best," Collin said, his eyes widening slightly as he started to wake up. "He doesn't even need a cape because he’s too fast for one. And his hair looks just like mine when I wake up, see?" He pointed to his own spiky bedhead. "I bet he’s out there right now, checking the buildings. I want to be just like him."

  Rumani glanced at Barbara, who gave him a knowing, subtle look. To Collin, Rumani was just the man who worked at the bank, the one who made sure the numbers matched. The boy had no idea that the "white skin" of the city's protector was currently folded in a secure, modest locker, waiting for the bank teller's shift to end.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Eat your eggs, Hero," Rumani said gently, reaching over to ruffle Collin's hair. "Even Omnihero needs a good breakfast before he deals with the weight of the world."

  As he spoke, another faint "thrum" vibrated through the floorboards—a deep, discordant shudder from the residential spire three miles away. It was getting worse. The "Steel-Eaters" weren't just siphoning; they were accelerating.

  Rumani finished his coffee, the discordant thrum in the floorboards now reaching a fever pitch that only he could perceive. To any other citizen of Providenc, RI, it was just the ambient hum of a 30x scale metropolis; to him, it was a structural scream.

  He stood up, adjusting his charcoal vest. "Time to make the ledgers balance," he said, his voice steady despite the tension in his ears.

  He turned to Barbara. In the quiet sanctity of their kitchen, he leaned in and gave her a gentle, lingering married couple's kiss—a moment of grounded reality before he faced the vertical pressures of the day.

  "Stay safe in the marrow," Barbara whispered, her eyes searching his. She knew the "bank teller" was already calculating the city’s survival.

  "Always," Rumani promised. He reached for his hat—a modest, professional felt fedora that completed his civilian "Teller" profile—and placed it firmly on his head.

  "Come on, Hero," he called to Collin. "The bus registry doesn't wait for fan theories."

  Collin scrambled to his feet, still clutching his bunny. "I bet Omnihero is at the North Spire right now," the boy chirped as they walked out the door. "I bet he’s holding up a whole floor with one hand!"

  As they stepped onto the sidewalk of the massive, industrial boulevard, the harmonic drift hit its peak. Three miles away, inside the "marrow" of a residential spire, the siphoning devices were about to shear a primary support bolt. If it snapped, the chain reaction would drop forty floors of housing.

  Rumani didn't break his stride. He didn't even look toward the spire.

  Using one of his limitless powers—specifically Molecular Cohesion Anchoring—Rumani projected a silent, invisible field of absolute stability toward the distant spire. He didn't need to move a muscle. In an instant, the siphoning devices were crushed by the sudden, localized increase in material density he imposed on the steel. The "Steel-Eaters'" tech short-circuited as the bolts they were trying to steal became harder than diamond.

  The discordant thrum vanished. The city’s "song" returned to a perfect, stable C-major. The day was saved before the bus even turned the corner.

  "Dad, did you hear that?" Collin asked, stopping at the edge of the bus stop. He looked up at the sky, his eyes wide.

  "Hear what, pal?" Rumani asked, adjusting his hat against the high-altitude Providenc wind.

  "I thought I heard a... a clink," Collin said, frowning. "Like a giant dropped a penny. I bet that was Omnihero punching a bad guy so hard his teeth fell out! Right, Dad?"

  Rumani smiled—the genuine, mandated smile of Protocol 003. "Maybe, Collin. Or maybe he just made sure everything stayed exactly where it was supposed to be."

  The massive, multi-level transit bus hissed to a stop. Collin hopped on, waving his bunny at his father through the reinforced glass. Rumani watched him go, his hands in his pockets, his mind already shifting to the interest rates at the bank. The Steel-Eaters were neutralized, the registry was secure, and as far as the world was concerned, Rumani Vikaria hadn't done a single thing all morning.

  The walk to the Industrial National Bank Building—universally dubbed the Superman Building by the locals—was a vertical journey for the eyes. In the 30x scale of Providenc, the art deco skyscraper didn't just pierce the clouds; it seemed to hold them up. Its stepped limestone facade felt like a mountain carved by the hands of giants from a previous, mythical age.

  Rumani walked with a steady, rhythmic pace, his felt hat pulled slightly low against the whistling gusts that tunneled between the spires.

  "I’m telling you, it was a 'Registry Reset'!" a voice chirped beside him.

  It was Elara, one of the junior tellers, walking alongside their boss, Mrs. Gable. Mrs. Gable was a kind, sharp-eyed woman who insisted on the morning walk to "clear the industrial fog" from their lungs before they spent eight hours behind security glass.

  "The harmonic sensors in the residential district went green all at once," Mrs. Gable noted, her modest wool coat buttoned to the chin. She looked over at Rumani. "What’s your take, Rumani? You usually have a feel for the city’s 'balance.' Do you think the Steel-Eaters just packed up and left?"

  Rumani shifted his weight, his civilian persona taking the lead. He let a flicker of "antsy" energy enter his voice—the nervous hum of a man who spent his life worrying about misplaced pennies.

  "I... I think we shouldn't get our hopes up," Rumani stammered slightly, adjusting his vest. "Maybe it was just a... a mechanical coincidence? A structural settle? I just hope it doesn't affect the morning deposits. If the transit tubes were backed up because of the 'clink,' we’ll be counting currency until midnight."

  Elara laughed, reaching out to playfully nudge his shoulder. "Always the teller, Rumani! The city is saved from a structural collapse, and you’re worried about the ledger." She paused, squinting at him as they stepped into the long shadow of the Superman Building. "You know... looking at you in this light, with the wind catching your hair under that hat... it’s the exact same 'power-up' spike as Omnihero."

  The group went silent for a heartbeat. Mrs. Gable looked from Rumani’s spiky black hair to the massive statue of the "Ancient Hero" in the building’s lobby, then back to Rumani’s nervous smile.

  Then, she burst into a warm, maternal laugh. "Rumani? As the sector’s protector?"

  "Can you imagine?" Elara giggled, shaking her head. "Rumani would be too busy asking the villains for their secondary identification and a signed deposit slip to actually throw a punch. He’s too 'civilian' for the white suit."

  "Besides," Mrs. Gable added, patting Rumani’s arm as they reached the massive brass revolving doors. "Omnihero is a divine anchor. Our Rumani is just the best teller in Providenc. One keeps the buildings up; the other keeps the accounts straight. Both are essential, but they're worlds apart."

  Rumani let out a self-deprecating chuckle, his "Smiling Anchor" expression perfectly calibrated to look like a man who was flattered but embarrassed by the comparison. "I think I'll stick to the vault. It’s much safer than hovering five thousand feet up."

  They entered the lobby, the marble floors echoing with the footsteps of thousands of workers. As they approached the teller line, Rumani felt the building’s foundation through the soles of his boots. It was perfectly still. The Molecular Cohesion he had applied earlier was holding fast, a silent secret buried in the stone.