Rain makes everything louder.

  Tyres hiss. Trainers slap. Plastic bags drag across wet pavement like something trying to get home.

  His real name was Cameron, but nobody used it. “Kam” stuck early, and it stuck for good.

  He’s halfway down Tottenham High Road when the e?bikes slide out from a side street.

  Two of them.

  Quiet motors. No plates. Moving like they’ve done this a hundred times already.

  “Same guys,” Taylor says in his ear. Calm. Measured. “Left side. Watch phones.”

  Kam doesn’t slow.

  Slowing invites things.

  One rider clips past a woman waiting at the crossing. Hood up. Phone out.

  One clean snatch.

  The phone is gone before she even realises what happened.

  She shouts.

  Not angry.

  Confused.

  The bikes accelerate.

  Kam exhales through his nose.

  If he ignores it, it’ll sit in his chest all night.

  If he moves, things get loud.

  And not in a good way.

  “You’re not about to,” Taylor says.

  “Define about.”

  “Define don’t.”

  Leo cuts in. “Bro don’t turn this into a side quest. We are literally two minutes from scrims. You always do this.”

  Kam steps sideways and plants his foot.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The second bike swerves late.

  Too late.

  The rider clips Kam’s shoulder like he’s hit a concrete bollard.

  A car alarm chirps once, then thinks better of it.

  A single drop of rain hits Kam’s sleeve and evaporates before it runs.

  Steam ghosts up from his hoodie as rain hits him.

  “You good?” Taylor asks, quieter now.

  “Yeah. Still default.”

  “Your default is concerning,” Leo says.

  The first rider hesitates.

  That’s the mistake.

  Pressure crests.

  The pavement under Kam’s trainers gives a tiny, almost inaudible crack.

  The air tightens around him. Rain flashes white as it hits him. Heat rolls off his shoulders in a low, controlled wave. His fingers sting inside his sleeves, skin tightening like he’s holding something too close to flame.

  “You’re red,” Taylor says.

  “Not red.”

  “Amber,” Taylor corrects.

  Something pulls together in front of Kam.

  Not light.

  Not metal.

  Mass.

  Dense. Squared. Existing because it has to.

  A massive grey industrial block forms in his hands. Cracks of molten orange pulse through the stone. Steam vents from it in heavy breaths.

  Leo goes quiet.

  Taylor doesn’t.

  “That’s not subtle,” Taylor says.

  Kam brings it down flat, edge turned away, like shutting a heavy door on the world.

  THOOM.

  The impact thumps through pavement.

  Concrete spiderwebs.

  Water jumps.

  The sound doesn’t travel far.

  But it carries.

  The rider dumps the bike and runs.

  “Chase him,” Leo says immediately. “Free XP.”

  “No,” Taylor says. “We’re not escalating into chase mechanics.”

  “He clipped you!”

  “I’m fine,” Kam says.

  “You’re smoking,” Leo says.

  Kam glances down.

  Thin lines of steam curl off his sleeves. His trainers have sunk slightly into softened pavement.

  Sirens start somewhere far off.

  Too many.

  Across the road, a man lowers his umbrella and stares a second too long. Someone else steps back without knowing why.

  A kid tugs their mum’s coat, whispering something she ignores.

  The woman stands frozen, blinking.

  Kam steps forward and places the recovered phone gently on the dry ledge of the shop window beside her.

  She looks at him.

  “Wasn’t me,” Kam says.

  “That’s worse,” Leo mutters.

  Kam walks away before she can say thank you.

  The weight drains.

  The heat thins.

  The block fractures along its seams and dissolves into steam and rain, leaving nothing behind but damp air and a faint ringing underfoot.

  “Alt up?” Taylor asks.

  “Nah.”

  “Red bar?”

  “For a sec.”

  “How red?”

  “Contained.”

  “That’s not a number,” Leo says.

  “Don’t,” Kam replies.

  Leo sighs. “I’m just saying if you combust mid-fight I need warning.”

  “You panic every time,” Taylor says.

  “That’s called emotional awareness.”

  “That’s called shouting.”

  Kam almost smiles.

  At the end of the street, his mum stands in the doorway of the shop, arms folded.

  She smells it before she sees him.

  Something sharp under the rain.

  Her eyes move to his sleeves.

  Then the street behind him.

  “You’re late.”

  “Bus.”

  She looks past him again. The bike. The flashing lights building at the junction.

  “Hm.”

  Kam steps inside.

  Warm air. Fluorescent hum. The steady smell of detergent and fabric softener.

  The dryer clicks once as it rotates — a small, familiar sound that settles him more than the warmth.

  Baseline creeps back into his bloodstream.

  His throat loosens. The sting in his fingers settles into a dull ache.

  Behind him, the door shuts.

  Outside, someone says, “Nah, I swear it just came out the ground.”

  A phone lifts higher.

  Not at Kam.

  At the pavement.

  Steam still lifting in slow curls from cracked concrete.

  The abandoned bike on its side.

  A thumbnail preview catches for half a second — grey street, white rain, a pulse of orange beneath stone.

  The buffering wheel spins once, catching the glow.

  “Did you get it?” someone asks.

  “Yeah. That’s weird.”

  The clip cuts before it makes sense.

  Inside, Kam hangs his hoodie on the back hook.

  His mum sets the kettle on.

  “Tea?” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  Outside, a notification tone pings.

  Not loud.

  Just once.

  Then again.

  Then twice in quick succession.

  Kam doesn’t hear it.

  Leo’s voice crackles in his ear.

  “If that goes viral, I’m claiming I trained you.”

  “You didn’t,” Taylor says.

  “I spiritually coached.”

  “You panicked.”

  “That’s coaching adjacent.”

  Kam exhales slowly.

  Outside, the rain keeps falling.

  And somewhere, the steam keeps replaying.

  The street doesn’t forget.