Chapter 2 When the Sky Breaks

AVA Pov

The city's gravity surge sirens haven't worked in three years, so when the sky breaks, no one is ready.

Three days since Hendricks told me not to come back. Three days of my Anchor dropping from thirty-five percent to twenty-eight. I'm here anyway, working under the table, because what else am I supposed to do? Wait at home for death?

The customer's Anchor is a mess—corroded contacts, blown regulator. I'm elbow-deep in its guts when the ground shudders.

My tools rattle across the workbench.

The lights flicker once. Twice.

Then silence.

The air changes. Becomes too light, too thin. Like the world just took a breath and forgot to let it out.

My stomach drops.

No. Not now.

"Everyone stay calm," Hendricks says, but his voice cracks. He knows what's coming.

The first scream comes from outside.

Then gravity fails.

Mrs. Pak lifts off her chair, her feet leaving the floor like she's made of paper. Her arms windmill, grasping at nothing. The other customers follow—floating upward in slow motion, their faces twisted in terror.

Hendricks grabs his desk. I clip my safety cable to the workbench, my fingers moving on instinct. The metal edge bites into my palms as I hold on.

"Emergency services," Hendricks shouts into his phone. "We need—" He stops. Listens. His face goes gray. "They're not coming. They're handling the Grounder districts first."

Of course they are.

Through the window, I watch the district come apart.

People rise into the air like balloons cut loose. Some have cables, safety harnesses, something to hold them. Most don't. They claw at buildings, at each other, at the empty air. Children scream for parents who can't reach them. The lucky ones grab onto something solid. The rest just... drift.

Then I see her.

A woman, maybe thirty, clutching a child to her chest. The boy is small, seven at most, his face buried in her shoulder. Her Anchor sparks once—a bright, dying flash—and goes dark.

She floats faster.

The child is slipping. His small hands can't hold on. He falls from her arms, begins drifting upward, spinning slowly, reaching for his mother who's already too far away.

He's screaming.

My mother's face flashes through my mind. Her hand slipping from mine. Her body getting smaller, smaller, gone.

I can't.

My Anchor beeps. Twenty-eight percent. Critical.

I'm terrified of heights. My Anchor's failing. I'll die up there.

The boy spins, tumbling through the air, his screams cutting through the chaos.

But I can't just watch him die.

I unclip my safety cable.

Hendricks grabs my arm. "Don't be stupid—"

I shake him off, grab the coil of industrial cable from the supply rack. Fifty feet, maybe. Probably not enough.

Outside, the world is madness. Bodies everywhere—floating, falling, clinging. The air smells like ozone and panic. I spot the boy thirty feet up and rising fast.

My hands shake as I wrap the cable around a streetlight, tie it to my waist. Three loops, double knot. The metal is cold against my fingers.

You can do this.

The boy is forty feet up now.

Just don't look down.

I jump.

Gravity catches me wrong—too light, too loose. I push off a building wall, using the momentum to swing upward. The cable pulls tight, burning through my coveralls. My Anchor screams warnings in my ear. Twenty percent stability.

The boy is fifty feet up, still rising, his small arms reaching for anything, anyone.

I push off another wall, higher, the cable singing with tension. My breath comes in gasps. Heights have always terrified me, but this—this is different. This is choosing to fall upward.

Forty feet. Forty-five.

The cable goes taut. End of the line.

The boy is five feet above me, drifting out of reach.

Five feet might as well be five miles.

My Anchor hits fifteen percent. CRITICAL FAILURE IMMINENT flashes across the display.

I look at the cable. At the boy. At the impossible distance between us.

Then I untie it.

"I'm coming, kid. Hold on!"

I push off the wall one final time, hard as I can. For a moment, I'm weightless—no cable, no anchor, no ground. Just me and the sky and the stupid choice I just made.

I catch him midair.

His small body slams into mine, arms wrapping around my neck in a death grip. He's sobbing, choking on his own fear. We're both floating now, rising faster. My Anchor is at ten percent, beeping frantically, its synthetic voice announcing imminent failure.

The fire escape. Twenty feet to my left.

I throw the cable—miss. It spins away, useless.

Come on.

I grab it on the rebound, throw again. The hook catches the metal railing with a sharp clang.

I pull us toward the building, hand over hand, the boy clinging to me like a barnacle. My Anchor hits eight percent. The beeping shifts to a solid tone. Failure imminent.

We crash into the fire escape. Metal bites into my shoulder. I grab the railing, wrap my legs around the bars, tie us both down with shaking hands.

Gravity begins stabilizing.

We sink, slow and controlled, the cable taking our weight. The ground rises to meet us. My legs give out the moment my feet touch solid earth.

A man runs over—mid-thirties, Grounder clothes, tears streaming down his face. He grabs the boy, pulls him into his arms, sobbing.

"You saved him. You saved my boy. Thank you, thank you—"

I can't answer. My whole body is shaking. Adrenaline crash hits like a truck. My Anchor flashes red. Six percent.

Hendricks appears beside me, his face pale. He's staring at me like I'm a ghost.

Behind him, a crowd is gathering. Phones out. Recording.

I don't notice. Can't notice. I just want to lie down and never move again.

That night, I barely make it home.

The straps feel like they're choking me. My Anchor is at six percent, flashing its death warning every thirty seconds. I should sleep. I can't.

Someone pounds on my door.

"Ava! Ava, open up!"

My neighbor—Marcus, lives two doors down. I stumble to the door, every muscle screaming.

He shoves his phone in my face before I can speak.

The screen shows me. Flying through the air, catching the boy, pulling us both to safety. The footage is shaky, dramatic. Two million views. The headline scrolls across the bottom: FLOATER GIRL RISKS DEATH TO SAVE GROUNDER CHILD.

My face is everywhere. Clear. Unmistakable.

Marcus is grinning. "You're famous! You're a hero!"

I stare at the screen. At myself. At the evidence of the stupidest thing I've ever done.

I wanted to disappear. Instead, the whole world just saw me.