The interior of the Superman Building was a cathedral of commerce. The ceiling was a mosaic of gilded gears and celestial maps, rising hundreds of feet above the teller line. Rumani took his position at Station 4, his fingers moving with practiced, "antsy" precision as he arranged his stamps and ink pads.

  Mrs. Gable walked the line, her eyes scanning the lobby as the massive bronze doors opened for the morning rush. "Keep the lines moving, everyone. We have a delegation from the Upper Spire Industrialists coming in today. Precision is our star."

  Rumani nodded, his hat now tucked into a modest locker behind him. He looked like any other specialized clerk—lean, focused, and unassuming. But as he looked out into the lobby, his Omni-senses didn't see customers; they saw mass and energy.

  About two hours into the shift, the air in the lobby changed. It wasn't a draft; it was a gravitational pull.

  A man approached Station 4. He was dressed in a sleek, charcoal suit that cost more than Rumani’s apartment, but his movements were stiff, almost mechanical. He carried a heavy, reinforced briefcase chained to his wrist.

  "Deposit for the Aether-Marrow Holding Group," the man said. His voice was flat, devoid of the local Providenc lilt.

  Rumani felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. As the man slid a stack of high-denomination "Registry Bonds" through the slot, Rumani’s fingers brushed the paper.

  To a normal human, it was just heavy-stock security paper. To Rumani, it felt like Glitched Marrow. The fibers of the bonds weren't organic; they were vibrating at a frequency that mirrored the "Steel-Eater" devices he had neutralized that morning.

  "Is there a problem, Mr. Vikaria?" the man asked, his eyes unblinking.

  Rumani felt the "power-up" energy behind his eyes start to hum. He had to stay in character. He let his hand tremble slightly, fumbling with the bonds as if he were intimidated by the amount of money.

  "Oh, no... no problem at all, sir," Rumani stammered, offering a nervous, toothy version of his smile. "It’s just... these are very... heavy. The ink must be quite fresh. I just need to verify the... the watermark."

  Under the table, out of sight of the security cameras and the customer, Rumani’s thumb traced a hidden pattern on the underside of the counter. He wasn't just checking a watermark. He was using Hyper-Spectral Analysis to peer inside the man’s briefcase.

  What he saw made his "Teller" heart skip a beat. The briefcase didn't contain more money. It contained a Resonance Siphon—a miniaturized version of the tech that had been eating the city's spires. This man wasn't a depositor; he was a walking "dead zone," a catalyst meant to destabilize the Superman Building from the inside out.

  "Just a moment," Rumani whispered, his tone antsy and apologetic. "I need to... I need to get Mrs. Gable’s override for a deposit of this size. Protocol, you know? The registry is very strict today."

  He turned away, his back to the man. For a split second, the "Smiling Anchor" faded, replaced by the cold, clinical gaze of Omnihero. He had to neutralize the device without breaking his "Bank Teller" cover, and he had to do it while Mrs. Gable was watching.

  Rumani leaned forward, his eyes widening with that specific brand of clerk-level panic. He reached for a heavy brass cup filled with registry-standard pens, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

  "Oh—oh dear, I am so sorry, sir! The—the weight of these bonds, it just threw me off!"

  As he "accidentally" swept his arm across the counter, the cup tipped. A dozen pens clattered onto the marble, rolling toward the man with the briefcase. In that moment of manufactured chaos, Rumani didn't just reach for the pens; he reached out with a Molecular Feedback Pulse.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  He didn't fire a beam. Instead, he simply altered the conductivity of the air molecules passing through the vents of the briefcase. For a fraction of a second, the atmosphere inside the device became as conductive as copper. The Resonance Siphon inside didn't explode; it simply suffered a silent, internal "brain bleed" as its circuits fused into a useless lump of slag.

  A faint smell of ozone, no stronger than a static shock on a carpet, wafted through the teller slot.

  "Terribly sorry," Rumani repeated, his "Smiling Anchor" persona returning as he scrambled to pick up the pens. "My hands... they aren't what they used to be. Too much counting, I suppose!"

  The man in the charcoal suit stiffened. He didn't care about the pens. He had felt a minute vibration in his wrist—the telltale sign of his device failing. He looked down at the briefcase, then back at Rumani. His expression didn't change, but the "gravitational pull" around him seemed to sharpen into a cold, predatory focus.

  "The deposit," the man said, his voice dropping an octave. "Is it verified or not, Mr. Vikaria?"

  Rumani stood back up, smoothing his vest. He looked at the bonds again. Now that the siphon was dead, the "glitch" in the paper felt like a fading echo.

  "Perfectly verified, sir," Rumani chirped, his antsy tone replaced by a helpful efficiency. "The Aether-Marrow account is as stable as the Superman Building itself. Thank you for choosing Industrial National."

  The man grabbed his receipt, the chain on his wrist rattling. He turned and walked away, his gait even more mechanical than before. He knew the device was dead, but he couldn't understand how. There were no energy signatures, no EMP blasts—just a clumsy teller and a spilled cup of pens.

  Mrs. Gable walked over, placing a hand on Rumani’s shoulder. "Easy there, Rumani. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Was that account a bit too 'high-value' for your morning nerves?"

  "Just a bit, Mrs. Gable," Rumani said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead—a physical exertion he had to consciously force his body to produce. "I think I might need a quick break. Just to... clear my head. The ink on those bonds was very strong."

  "Take five, Rumani. You've earned it for handling that cold fish so politely."

  Rumani nodded and stepped away from the window. He didn't head for the breakroom. He headed for the secure locker in the back. The "small" start was over. The siphons weren't just in the spires anymore; they were walking into his bank. It was time to stop being the teller and start being the Oversight.

  The transition from the mundane to the majestic happens in a flicker of light, a testament to the high-tier physics of the Second Multiverse. Rumani steps into the secluded, windowless locker room—a small, clinical space that smells of industrial cleaner and ozone.

  He stands in the center of the room, still wearing the vest and tie of the Industrial National Bank. In a 30x scale world, time is the most precious resource, and the Providenc Registry has provided him with a transition method that bypasses the manual struggle of changing clothes.

  The Instantaneous Registry Shift

  Rumani closes his eyes, focusing on the Molecular Star on his chest—not the physical emblem, but the internal anchor of his power.

  Suddenly, a shimmer of absolute white light wraps around his frame. It isn't an explosion; it’s a Teleportative Overlay. Before he even begins to shed his civilian vest, the white skintight bodysuit manifests directly onto his skin. It is a seamless, opaque layer that adheres to the Modesty Protocols of the city, with the internal trunks already integrated to maintain his lean-muscular, professional silhouette [cite: 2026-01-14].

  The civilian clothes—the shirt, the vest, the slacks—simply slide off his now-slick surface, falling in a neat pile on the floor. He stands for a moment as Omnihero, his spiky black hair crackling with the kinetic energy of the shift. He reaches down, picks up his bank attire, and places it neatly in his locker.

  The Silent Departure

  He looks toward a narrow, high-security ventilation window near the ceiling. It is designed for airflow, not for a man to pass through, but to a master of Providence-grade physics, physical barriers are merely suggestions.

  Rumani doesn't jump; he simply ceases to be bound by the building's gravity. He floats upward, his white suit catching the dim light of the locker room. He moves through the window—not by breaking it, but by momentarily phasing his molecular density to match the air.

  He emerges on the exterior of the Superman Building, thousands of feet above the streets of Providenc, RI.

  The wind at this altitude would shred a normal man, but Rumani’s "white skin" is a friction-less anchor. He is invisible to the crowds below, a white streak against the grey limestone of the tower. He looks down, his vision sharpening. Through the layers of steel and concrete, he locks onto the "glitched" signature of the man in the charcoal suit, who is just now exiting the lobby into the massive transit hub.

  Omnihero leans forward, his body cutting through the air like a needle. He doesn't leave a sonic boom—that would be a breach of Oversight Protocol. He is a silent shadow in the bright Providenc morning, a protector who has already saved the city twice before lunch, and no one even knows he’s gone from his teller window.