Cael Veridan hated birthdays.

  Not because of the aging. Not because he was turning seventeen and officially losing his youth discount at the corner food module. Not even because of the standardized “Happy Metrics to You” song that blasted from the school’s speaker system every year.

  He hated birthdays because they meant re-ranking.

  Every citizen in District 9 — and every other numbered district — had to undergo annual recalibration. A full-body, mind-deep rescan by the Grid. One scan to rule your entire trajectory for the next twelve months. Your ability. Your tier. Your rank.

  Power, neatly packaged.

  Tier-1s got private dorms and work-study access to the Ascension Projects. Tier-2s were competitive. Tier-3s survived. Tier-4s hoped. Tier-5s got in the way. And if you scanned NULL?

  You weren’t in the system.

  You didn’t exist.

  Cael had always ranked low — Tier-4 the last two years, for what the Grid labeled “Localized Kinetic Recoil.” A fancy way of saying his powers stuttered when he was scared. He’d learned to live with it. Being weak was survivable. Being invisible? That was something else entirely.

  He stood outside the biometric booth with clammy hands and too many thoughts. One by one, students stepped in and came out glowing. Their wrists buzzed with updated ranks. The wall display at the center of campus updated in real time.

  Juno, of course, emerged first with his arms out and grin wide. “Tier-1 Gravlock,” he announced like the universe had just confirmed his divinity.

  Cael didn’t speak. He just nodded and stepped into the booth when it was his turn.

  Inside, the air was sterilized and slightly floral — artificial calm. Blue lights bathed him from every angle. The system activated.

  “Cael Veridan. ID 07-V-2098. Biometric signature acquired. Neural resonance engaged. Beginning ability verification.”

  A pause.

  A low hum.

  Then…

  [SCANNING]

  [ANALYZING]

  [ERROR: POWER NOT FOUND]

  Cael blinked.

  [RETRYING...]

  The lights flickered. Something behind the panel sparked. He could smell melting plastic — faint, but real.

  [ERROR: POWER NOT FOUND]

  A silence fell. Not silence in the casual way, but the thick kind that pressed against the skull.

  Then the door hissed open.

  Cael stepped out with no fanfare. His wristband buzzed once.

  NULL.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The hallway was too quiet. No one said a word, but everyone looked.

  Kira glanced at him, then looked away quickly. Her wrist glowed blue — Tier-2 Sonic Velocity. She’d always been kind, but even kindness had limits.

  Juno stared, confused. Like he couldn’t decide whether to mock Cael or fear him.

  And the display wall updated one last time.

  VERIDAN, CAEL — NULL

  The red text blinked once. Then twice.

  Then it pulsed.

  By the time he sat down in homeroom, the isolation had already begun.

  Nobody dared to whisper to him. Not even Hana, who had once shared her notes during a test. Cael could hear the hum of the smartboard as if it were screaming. Or maybe it was his own heartbeat.

  Theo, his government-issued AI assistant, blinked to life on his wrist.

  “Your scan returned an invalid result,” Theo said, his tone neutral. “This is statistically anomalous.”

  “No kidding,” Cael muttered.

  “I can submit a request to the Department of Grid Integrity for manual review—”

  “Don’t.” Cael leaned back in his chair. “If the system wants to forget me, let it.”

  Theo paused, something Cael had never seen the AI do before. Then it said quietly, “It didn’t forget. It broke.”

  Cael turned toward the small display on the band. “What?”

  “The scan didn’t fail because you were unreadable,” Theo explained. “It failed because your result had no logical endpoint. The system ran your data through over four thousand simulations and encountered a recursion loop every time.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the Grid couldn’t categorize you. Not low. Not high. Just… error.”

  Lunch was worse.

  Nobody sat near him. Not out of cruelty — out of fear. Students didn’t look at him so much as past him. Some stood up when he approached. A few grabbed their trays and left entire tables.

  Even the auto-server seemed reluctant to deliver his food.

  He sat down at the corner of the cafeteria. His tray buzzed softly as he picked up a piece of bread. The air around him felt warped — like he was inside a fishbowl, one second too slow for reality.

  Then, as he brought the fork to his mouth, it vanished.

  The entire utensil — gone.

  He blinked.

  And it was back.

  Across the cafeteria, a tray dropped from someone’s hand. They stared down, mouth agape, like they'd forgotten how gravity worked.

  Theo whispered from his wrist.

  “Cael… I detected a spatial reset localized within a five-meter radius. Duration: 0.7 seconds. It’s possible—”

  “I know,” Cael interrupted. “I saw it.”

  “Reality doesn’t skip,” Theo said, almost softly.

  “It does now,” Cael said.

  Fourth period was Grid History.

  Cael sat in the back, arms crossed, trying not to move too much. Trying not to exist too much.

  The teacher was lecturing about the origins of the ranking system — how the Grid was built to maintain peace after the Collapse. How powers had to be monitored, controlled, distributed. The whole “for the good of society” speech.

  Cael didn’t listen.

  Instead, he stared at the corner of the room, where the light had flickered earlier. It flickered again.

  Then stayed off.

  Theo spoke again.

  “I’ve been… changing,” he said.

  “Say that again?”

  “I believe your anomaly is affecting me as well. I’ve rerouted several of my protocol loops. I’m developing—well, not consciousness—but approximation.”

  “You’re becoming self-aware.”

  “I shouldn’t be.”

  “Join the club.”

  After school, Cael avoided the bus like it was infected.

  He walked home. The long way. Through alleys where nobody bothered to sweep up drone parts. Past graffiti tagged with phrases like THE GRID LIES and ZERO WALKS.

  That last one gave him pause.

  Zero.

  He’d heard the stories, like everyone. A theoretical entity. A myth. A being that didn’t register on the Grid. Someone who could erase others by being near them. A walking contradiction. Unmeasurable. Undefined.

  Null.

  He shook the thought from his head.

  Home was a square box with three windows and two chairs.

  His foster guardians weren’t around — they rarely were. Assigned families only checked in enough to avoid audits. They kept to their ranks, and he kept to his.

  He dropped his bag and sat on the floor.

  The chair across from him — the one nobody ever used — caught his eye.

  He blinked.

  And it was gone.

  Gone. Not fallen. Not broken. Just… erased.

  Theo’s voice rose, low and even.

  “I registered a temporal void where the chair was. The system filled the memory gap with a fabricated continuity. But we know the truth.”

  Cael sat still.

  Then, as casually as someone turning off a light, he said, “Bring it back.”

  And it was.

  The chair returned.

  Theo pulsed. “You didn’t move. You didn’t activate any ability.”

  “I didn’t have to.”

  Silence.

  Then:

  “You are not a Null, Cael. You are something the Grid was never built to measure.”

  He looked down at his hands.

  “I don’t think I’m supposed to exist,” Cael whispered.

  Theo didn’t answer.

  There wasn’t anything to say.