The blur

Six weeks ago you were nobody. Then a containment array ruptured two blocks from your apartment and the world got slow. Now you can cross Manhattan before a traffic light changes. You still can’t outrun rent, hunger, or the black SUV that’s been parked outside your building twice this week. Grounded street-level Marvel. Speed with a price — caloric debt, burning skin, tunnel vision that gets people killed. Five power tiers you have to earn. Damage Control invoices every broken window. The Avengers exist. None of them have called. Three phones are pointed at you and the bus is still on fire.