The cold slapped Roman across the face as soon as he stepped outside.
Sharp, biting air cut through his shirt like claws, but he didn't stop moving.
Misha was already halfway down the steps of the boarding house, her coat fluttering gently behind her as if the wind didn't dare touch her. She walked with silent urgency, a strange sort of stillness in her every step—as if she wasn't escaping danger, but heading straight into it.
Roman didn't ask where they were going. Not yet.
His legs moved before his thoughts could catch up.
And somewhere behind those thoughts, panic bloomed—slow, but spreading.
The moment he crossed the gate, he felt it.
Pressure.
A subtle shift in the air, so faint it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. The kind of change that made your skin crawl without reason. The street felt narrower somehow, the night darker, the silence around them too exact.
It wasn't just quiet.
It was watchful.
Measured.
They were being hunted.
Misha turned sharply into a narrow alley, the shadows swallowing her without resistance. Roman followed, his bag bouncing against his side, his eyes flicking behind him every few seconds. Expecting shadows to peel off the walls.
Expecting guns.
Expecting death.
"I saw someone," he whispered, his voice almost lost in the wind. "Up on the roof. Right before we turned."
"You were right," Misha said calmly, not even glancing back. "But they won't shoot."
Roman narrowed his eyes. "Why not?"
"Because they need you alive."
She paused, just long enough for the next words to cut deep.
"…For now."
For now.
Two words that sounded more like a countdown than a reassurance.
They emerged from the alley into a service road winding behind old shuttered shops—broken glass in the windows, graffiti etched into rusted shutters, and concrete walls cracked from years of abandonment.
"We're not taking a car?" Roman asked, panting.
"No. Too easy to trace. Checkpoints, road cameras, license scans. Facial recognition. They've already flagged you."
"You talk like this is just another Tuesday."
"For me?" She glanced at him briefly. "It is."
That should have made him feel safer.
It didn't.
They weaved through dark alleys and half-collapsed buildings, avoiding open streets like instinct. But Roman could tell—Misha wasn't just moving. She was guiding.
Every turn she took was precise. Every step deliberate.
She wasn't running away.
She was leading him somewhere.
But where?
And why?
His legs were burning. His breath came ragged. He hadn't moved like this in years. Not since school. Not since everything still felt normal.
But beneath the fatigue, something else stirred.
Pressure. Again.
But not from above.
Not from the rooftops.
From within.
It started in his chest. A growing tightness, like his lungs were preparing for a scream he hadn't yet earned. Something was listening. Waiting.
Then he felt it.
Fear.
But not his own.
Faint. Raw. Nearby.
"Misha," he hissed, slowing his steps. "Someone's close."
She didn't flinch. "I know."
"You're not worried?"
"I'm counting on it."
Misha had chosen this route for a reason.
It wasn't random, and it certainly wasn't the shortest or safest path out of the city. But she wasn't aiming for safe. She was counting on hesitation.
Among the agents deployed that night, she knew there was one who didn't belong in the field—at least, not yet.
A rookie.
Fresh out of training. Green and uncertain, the kind of operative who still flinched when tension rose. It was his first live hunt, his first assignment involving a mutant target.
And he was timid.
Not cowardly, no. But cautious. Hesitant.
She had seen this version of the night play out before, in glimpses of unfolding futures—some chaotic, some bloody. In the few paths where Roman escaped intact, one common thread appeared every time: the rookie hesitated.
That was enough.
Misha wasn't just avoiding danger. She was orchestrating it.
Guiding Roman toward a pressure point—one where fear, uncertainty, and inexperience collided—and letting his mutation do the rest.
He stared at her, stunned. But before he could question her again—
A man stepped out from behind a dumpster up ahead.
Black jacket. Gloves. Earpiece glinting in the low light. No weapon in hand—but that didn't matter. His posture said enough.
He wasn't here to talk.
Roman's instincts screamed.
The man raised one hand.
A signal.
Two more shadows peeled off the walls behind them. Silent. Efficient. Surrounding them.
A trap.
Roman turned sharply, preparing to run—but Misha didn't even blink.
"Don't run," she said, her voice even. "Let it happen."
"What?! Are you insane?!"
She looked over her shoulder, eyes sharp.
"You want to know what you are?" she asked. "Then stop holding back."
Roman didn't have time to answer.
The first agent lunged.
Roman dodged—barely—his body stumbling backward into broken concrete. Pain shot up his spine as he fell.
Before he could rise, a second agent rushed forward, grabbed him by the shoulder, and hauled him up with brutal force.
Roman struggled, but the man's grip was iron.
And then—
it happened.
The pressure inside him broke.
Like a dam bursting beneath his ribs.
But it wasn't his fear that triggered it.
It was theirs.
A ripple of panic spilled out of one of the agents like blood in water—sharp, bitter, uncontrolled. Roman felt it pour into him like freezing fire, racing down his spine, crawling across his nerves.
And then—he changed.
No fire. No glowing light. No roar of power.
Just slipping.
The world warped. Slowed. Thickened like syrup around him.
Time didn't stop, but it bent—bending around him.
Roman's body moved on instinct. Light. Silent. Detached from weight and noise and gravity.
He twisted out of the agent's grip like smoke, dropped low to the ground, and spun beneath a swinging arm.
And then—he vanished.
One breath later, he was behind the man.
The agent turned, confused.
Too late.
Roman grabbed the back of his collar and slammed his head into the wall.
The crack was soft, but final.
The man slumped to the ground.
Roman barely had time to catch his breath before the second agent reacted—fury flashing across his face. He shouted, reaching for the gun on his belt.
Roman's heartbeat slowed.
He didn't feel scared anymore.
He felt stronger.
Not just lighter. Not just faster.
His body had shifted again—hardened. Braced.
Rage followed fear. Layered onto it like heat building over wind.
Roman vanished once more, streaking sideways like a shadow—and appeared behind the man.
One strike.
A brutal palm to the throat. Sharp. Precise.
The man collapsed.
Silence returned to the alley.
Roman stood there, chest heaving. His hands trembling.
The fear and rage of his enemies still lingered inside him, curling through his body like black smoke, clouding the edges of his vision and warping his thoughts.
They didn't understand what they were fighting.
Neither did he.
From the shadows ahead, a third agent stepped out.
He looked younger than the others. His weapon was half-raised, his mouth slightly open in disbelief.
His eyes flicked between Roman and the bodies of his fallen comrades.
He hesitated.
Roman didn't.
With fear and rage still roaring in his blood, Roman surged forward.
A blur. A whisper. A ghost.
Seconds later, the alley fell still.
Only then did he look back.
Misha was still standing exactly where she'd been. Calm. Quiet.
Watching.
"You said I'd understand," Roman gasped, barely able to speak through the adrenaline choking his lungs. "What the hell was that?"
"Fear mutation," Misha said. "Triggered by emotional exposure. That was your first controlled shift."
Roman could barely nod. His pulse still thundered. His legs felt hollow. His body was his, but barely.
"And then…" Misha stepped closer, her voice level. "Rage overlapped it. You didn't mutate twice. You mutated once—stacked."
Roman looked down at his hands, still shaking.
"You became faster because of their fear," she explained. "Then stronger, more durable because of their anger. Your skin reinforced itself—hardened, but still flexible. Adaptive. Not armor. Something smarter."
"You're saying…" he panted, "I change depending on what other people feel?"
Misha nodded once.
"Exactly. That's your soul mutation. You react. You adapt. The stronger the emotion around you, the more powerful you become. But not without risk."
He swallowed. "That wasn't control. That was survival."
"Same thing," she replied. "When you're being hunted."
Roman turned toward the alley's end, where the city lights blinked faintly through the fog.
Behind him, one of the agents let out a weak groan.
Still alive.
For now.
"We need to move," Misha said, already walking again.
Roman stared down at his hands, trying to steady them.
They weren't glowing.
They weren't monstrous.
But they felt different.
As if they remembered something he hadn't known he could do.
He looked up once more.
This wasn't just running anymore.
It was the beginning of something else.
Something terrifying.
Something real.
He followed.