The sound was what first jolted him from his anxious reverie. It wasn't the usual squeak of mice behind the walls or the drip of water from a leaky pipe. This was a different sound. The rhythmic, heavy thud of boots on asphalt outside, uniform and steady. Not one or two people. Too many.
Thomas Vance's heart leaped into his throat. Instantly, a chill crept up his spine, colder than the concrete floor pressing against his stomach. He held his breath, trying to make himself as small as possible in the corner of this musty old warehouse. The air around him felt heavy, thick with the pungent smell of dust, mold, and rust. The only light came from pale shafts piercing the dirty windows near the ceiling, cutting through the darkness and illuminating dust motes dancing like ghosts.
His palms were slick with cold sweat as he pressed them harder against the rough concrete. "They found me," a silent whisper echoed in his head, overriding all other thoughts.
His mind raced, faster than his pounding heart. I should have left two days ago. I shouldn't have waited. Regret tasted like acid in his stomach. The faint hope that had sustained him until now felt like a fragile thread, ready to snap at any moment. The Academy... Charles Xavier... they could protect me. I just need to... I just need to get there. But the words felt hollow now, a belated prayer in the face of the forces that had arrived at his doorstep.
The oppressive silence was shattered by deafening static, followed by a man's voice, mechanically amplified until it boomed throughout the warehouse.
"Thomas Vance! We know you're inside! Surrender now! Come out with your hands up!"
The name, his own name, uttered in that emotionless, commanding tone, felt like a direct blow to his gut. The blood seemed to drain from his face. This wasn't a random patrol. This wasn't a misunderstanding. They had come for him. Specifically. His last remaining hope crumbled, turning to dust like the old concrete around him.
The available options flashed through his mind, each worse than the last. Fight? That was suicide. He could feel the vibrations of heavy vehicles now taking position outside, encircling the only exit. Surrender? Images of sterile laboratories, hypodermic needles, and cold cells flickered in his mind. No, surrender meant the end of everything.
There was only one option left. The one he feared most.
Using his powers.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to suppress the paralyzing panic. "Don't be stupid, Tom. Remember what happened in Reno?" he whispered internally. The memory surged forth, sharp and painful. He had only wanted a little money for food, a desperate, small desire. The result was a block-wide power outage and him having to flee amidst the chaos he'd unintentionally created. His power was both a gift and a curse, a tool without a manual, more often exploding in his own hands than working as intended. Using it was a gamble with the universe, and Thomas knew, he wasn't a lucky gambler.
THUMP!
A dull, heavy impact struck the warehouse door, shaking the entire old building. Dust fell from the ceiling like dirty snow. Thomas flinched violently, his body tensing as if electrified. The panic he had tried to suppress now exploded, drowning out all doubt and caution.
There was no more time.
He closed his eyes, focusing his entire will on the flimsy wooden door. "I want this door to be as strong as steel," he whispered, holding his breath. A familiar wave of nausea immediately swept over him as energy felt forcibly drawn from his core.
THUMP!
The second impact came harder. Instead of holding, the sound of cracking and splintering wood was clearly audible. Failure. The door did not become steel. His power only drained his precious stamina to no avail.
"Again! Break it down!" a voice shouted from outside.
Desperation began to choke him. He pushed himself to a sitting position, leaning against the cold concrete pillar, his head throbbing. He tried again, this time with a wilder, more reckless demand. "I want them all to go away! Forget I'm even here!" He forcibly pushed out the last remnants of his energy, and this time the cost was higher. His vision narrowed, darkness dancing at the edges of his sight.
However, the soldiers' shouts outside didn't stop. Their footsteps, in fact, sounded closer. Another failure. And now, he was not only terrified, but also weak. Very weak.
CRASH!
With one final impact, the door shattered. Wood splinters flew into the warehouse like projectiles. Silhouettes of fully armed soldiers immediately stormed in, moving with deadly efficiency. Red laser dots danced on the dirty walls and floor, sweeping through the darkness, searching for their target. Searching for him.
Time seemed to stop. All options were exhausted. All gambles had failed. All that remained was pure terror.
Logic no longer existed. Planning had vanished. In his mind, a single sentence formed, not as a thought, but as a scream of the soul born from the deepest despair.
"I JUST WANT TO BE GONE FROM ALL THIS TROUBLE!"
This time, it felt different. Not just a wave of nausea or dizziness. It was the sensation of his body being pulled from all directions simultaneously, as if every atom within him would be ripped apart. A blinding white light exploded from within him, so bright it burned his eyes even through closed lids. His ears rang with a sound like thick fabric being forcefully torn. Then, the sensation of falling weightlessly, plunging into an endless void.
Then, everything went silent.
Heat. That was the first thing he noticed. The searing heat of asphalt on his back, and a silence so total it felt oppressive.
Thomas coughed, forcing his eyes open. A clear, cloudless blue sky greeted him, so utterly contrasted with the gloomy warehouse ceiling of mere seconds ago. With a low groan, he pushed himself to a sitting position. Every muscle burned, his energy completely drained to the bone.
He was no longer in the warehouse. He was in the middle of a wide highway, surrounded by a sea of cars stopped in a strange eternity. No soldiers. No gunfire. Only silence and a strange odor in the air, a sweet and rotten mixture that made his stomach churn.
He stared at his violently trembling hands. He had succeeded. He was alive. He was free. A tremendous wave of relief washed over him, but the feeling immediately froze, replaced by a creeping sense of dread that crawled under his skin.
"Where is this?"
His question hung in the dead air, unanswered. And that's when he saw it. Far down the road, among the abandoned cars, a figure walked towards him. Walking the wrong way. Stumbling, unbalanced, and aimless. The figure kept approaching. Slowly. Relentlessly.