The line was three thousand people deep, and Zeke was number two thousand nine hundred.

  In the Fourth Multiverse, Athens was less of a city and more of a geographical bruise. The ground was original, but the infrastructure had been duplicated to the point of insanity. One-scale stone buildings, identical in their crumbling yellow masonry, stood shoulder-to-shoulder for miles in every direction. It was a sea of stucco and clay tile that didn't know how to end.

  Zeke shifted his weight, his sneakers squeaking against the sun-baked pavement of the Plaka. The heat wasn't just coming from the sun; it was coming from the three thousand bodies pressed into a narrow, winding alleyway that had been designed for donkeys but now served a population that could fill a continent. The humidity was a physical weight, thick with the smell of roasting lamb, exhaust fumes from hovering scooters, and the sharp, metallic tang of nearby cultivators trying to stay cool.

  He felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his faded Greece t-shirt. He didn't move to wipe it.

  His hair, a messy crown of thick golden curls, was starting to react. As the person behind him—a middle-aged woman frantically fanning herself with a Sect recruitment flyer—accidentally brushed against his shoulder, a faint snap of static electricity echoed in the air.

  "Watch it," the woman grumbled, her face flushed red from the heat.

  Zeke didn't turn around. He just looked up at the thin strip of blue sky visible between the tall, narrow apartment blocks. "It's the humidity," he muttered, though his voice had a resonant, low-frequency vibration to it that made the woman flinch.

  The curls on the back of his head didn't just move; they began to lift, individually standing on end as they drank in the atmospheric charge of the crowded street. To anyone else, it looked like a bad hair day. To Zeke, it was the feeling of the sky beginning to notice he was annoyed.

  Up ahead, a mile and a half down the winding cobblestones, he could finally see the red-and-white striped umbrella of the gyro stall. It was a tiny wooden shack, looking utterly insignificant against the backdrop of the three-thousand-fold sprawl, yet it was the only thing Zeke had wanted all day.

  He took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to smother the irritation rising in his chest. If he let his temper go here, in this density, the resulting pressure drop would probably implode every window for six blocks. He just wanted a gyro. He wanted to pay his six euros, find a quiet corner, and be a tourist in peace.

  But the air was getting heavier. The static in his hair was no longer a hum; it was a rhythmic throb that matched the distant, low rumble of a storm that hadn't even formed yet.

  The throb in the air intensified, but it wasn’t coming from the sky. It was a mechanical vibration, a high-frequency whine that set Zeke’s teeth on edge.

  From the far end of the narrow street, the crowd began to part. It wasn’t a polite movement; it was a panicked shove as thousands of people tried to compress themselves against the yellowed walls of the apartment blocks.

  A motorcade from the Ares Sect was forcing its way through the Plaka. These were the men who ran the local military contracts, and they drove like they owned the physics of the road. Four black, heavy-set SUVs drifted six inches above the cobblestones, held up by humming levitation blowers that kicked up a blinding cloud of grit and old street dust.

  Zeke didn't move toward the wall. He stayed exactly where he was in the middle of the line, his sneakers planted.

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  The lead vehicle didn't slow down. The wind-wake from its undercarriage hit Zeke like a physical wall of hot, oily air. It whipped his golden curls into a frenzy and sent the vendor’s red-and-white umbrella spinning off its pole, where it clattered squarely against the side of Zeke’s head before falling into the dirt.

  The dust coated his arms. It turned his faded shirt into a gray rag.

  A window in the lead SUV slid down just an inch. A man in a sharp, slate-gray uniform looked out, his eyes shielded by tactical glass. He didn't see the man who commanded the storm; he saw a messy-haired tourist in sweatpants standing in the way of a Sect mission.

  "Clear the lane, local," the officer barked, his voice amplified by a speaker that made the narrow alley shake.

  Zeke looked down at the umbrella lying in the dirt at his feet. Then he looked at the black bumper of the SUV, which was hovering just inches from his knees. The static in his hair stopped humming. It went silent.

  He didn't shout. He didn't reach for a weapon. He simply leaned his weight forward, resting one hand casually on the hood of the lead vehicle.

  Deep within the engine block, the levitation crystals were vibrating at a stabilized frequency. Zeke sent a single, physical spark from his palm into the metal. It wasn't a magic spell; it was a corrective surge of raw electricity that searched for the nearest ground.

  The hum of the lead SUV turned into a violent, screeching grind. The teal light beneath the chassis flickered once and died.

  The heavy vehicle didn't just stop; it belly-flopped. Two tons of reinforced steel slammed into the cobblestones with a bone-jarring thud that sent a shockwave through the feet of everyone standing in line. Because the vehicles were tethered by a local network, the surge traveled down the line. One by one, the other three SUVs lost their lift, slamming into the street like falling bricks.

  The motorcade was dead in the water, blocking the alley completely.

  Zeke pulled his hand back and wiped the dust off his palm onto his sweatpants. He picked up the red-and-white umbrella from the dirt and handed it back to the stunned vendor.

  The lead SUV hit the cobblestones with a heavy, metallic crunch that vibrated through the soles of Zeke’s sneakers. Steam hissed from the vents beneath the chassis, mixing with the smell of roasting pork and the rising humidity.

  Zeke didn't wait for the dust to settle. He turned his back on the stalled motorcade and stepped up to the wooden counter of the stall. The vendor was frozen, his tongs hovering over a pile of shaved meat, his eyes fixed on the black military vehicles blocking the street.

  "One gyro," Zeke said, his voice level. "Everything on it. Extra onions."

  Behind him, the SUV doors hissed open. Four men in gray tactical gear climbed out, immediately shouting over the noise of the crowd. They weren't looking at the people in line; they were looking at their watches and the dead consoles of their vehicles. The officer from the lead car stomped toward the front of his SUV, kicking at a loose piece of trim that had shaken off during the drop.

  "Out of the way!" the officer barked, waving a hand dismissively at Zeke and the people near the stall. "This is a recovery zone. Move back!"

  He shoved past Zeke to inspect the engine, nearly knocking the coin out of Zeke’s hand. The man’s focus was entirely on the radio clipped to his shoulder, which was currently blaring a series of status alerts and mechanical error codes. To him, Zeke was just another obstacle in an already congested alley.

  The vendor blinked and finally looked at Zeke. Seeing the soldier distracted by the broken car, he moved with frantic speed. He shaved the meat, tossed the onions, and wrapped the gyro in grease-stained paper in a single blurred motion. He shoved the food across the counter, eager to clear his stall before the street was officially cordoned off.

  Zeke handed over the heavy coin. The vendor slid it into a drawer without looking at the change and gave a quick, sharp nod toward the exit of the alley.

  "Next stop," the vendor muttered, already looking toward the person behind Zeke.

  Zeke took a large bite of the gyro, the heat of the meat and the sharp bite of the onions finally cutting through the stale air. As he turned to leave, the officer stepped back into his path, still arguing with someone over his radio.

  "I said clear out!" the officer yelled, giving Zeke a rough shove toward the sidewalk to make room for a technician who had just jumped out of the second car.

  Zeke absorbed the shove without moving, then simply stepped around the man, threading his way through the gaps between the stalled SUVs. He merged back into the sea of people, his faded Greece t-shirt blending into the thousands of other tourists and locals trying to navigate the gridlock.

  The rain began to fall then—not a drizzle, but a sudden, heavy downpour that instantly turned the street dust to mud. Zeke kept walking, shielded by the overhanging balconies of the yellow buildings, watching the first flash of lightning illuminate the distant, crowded horizon.