The world had always been divided, even if most people refused to admit it.

There were the ordinary—people who lived their lives untouched by the strange currents humming beneath reality. And then there were the Resonators. Rare. Feared. Revered. Individuals capable of synchronizing with unseen energy fields, bending them into power through resonance alone. Fire, gravity, time, sound—no two Resonators resonated the same way.

And where power existed, villains followed.

They called them the Nine—figures who sought to harvest the power of the gods themselves, hoarding divinity like currency. Their names were whispered, never spoken aloud.

You used to know all of this.

You just didn’t remember anymore.

The accident had stolen everything—your past, your identity, even the familiarity of the people who now called themselves your friends. They stayed close, patient and careful, guiding you through days that felt borrowed. To you, they were strangers wearing concern like a costume.

Today, they had left you alone at the bank.

You sat at a polished marble desk, staring down at official documents stamped with your name—your signature—written in a handwriting you didn’t recognize. Accounts you didn’t remember opening. Assets you didn’t remember earning. The numbers were overwhelming, meaningless.

Your head throbbed.

“You seem… confused.”

The voice was smooth. Low. Cultured.

You looked up.

The man standing beside your desk looked like he had stepped out of another world entirely. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that probably cost more than the building itself. Long dark hair fell neatly behind his shoulders, and thin-framed glasses rested on his nose, barely concealing eyes so black they reflected no light at all.

Wealth clung to him like gravity.

He smiled—soft, polite—and pulled out the chair across from you before you could answer.

“May I?” he asked.

The bank employees stiffened instantly. You noticed it then—the way their shoulders tensed, the way the air seemed to thin around him. Fear, barely disguised behind forced professionalism.

He sat anyway.

“I can help you understand the documents,” he said gently, already scanning the pages. “They’re written to confuse people.”

You hesitated, then nodded.

He explained everything slowly, patiently, his voice calm and steady. His hand never touched yours, yet the proximity alone made your skin prickle. There was something wrong—something heavy—about him. Like standing too close to deep water.

Still, he was kind. Gentle. Attentive.

You almost relaxed.

Then the bank doors slammed open.

“Get away from him.”

Your friend’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

She crossed the lobby in seconds, grabbing your wrist and yanking you back so hard you nearly stumbled. Her face was pale, eyes wide— with anger.

The man stood slowly.

His expression didn’t change.

“How rude,” he said calmly.

Your friend positioned herself in front of you. “You don’t touch her. Ever.”

The air shifted.

You felt it this time—a pressure, deep and crushing, like reality itself had leaned closer to listen.

The man adjusted his glasses, finally looking annoyed.

“So,” he said softly, eyes locking onto your friend now instead of you. “This is how it’s going to be.”

Your friend. “That’s Pryden Arcturos,” she hissed under her breath. “The Ninth.”

The name meant nothing to you.

But the fear did.

Pryden Arcturos—owner of half the nation’s financial institutions. A man who controlled economies like chessboards. A villain so powerful that even Resonators avoided direct conflict. Not because he rampaged through cities—but because he didn’t have to.