Morning came softly, almost apologetically.
The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving the world washed clean and bright in that fragile way mornings sometimes were. Pale light slipped through the curtains, catching on the edges of Aaron's room — the posters, the shelves, the familiar mess of a life that suddenly felt like it belonged to someone else.
He hadn't really slept.
The first pebble hit the window with a soft tap.
Aaron froze.
For a moment, he thought he'd imagined it — a leftover echo from dreams and nerves. Then another pebble struck the glass, light and careful, followed by a pause. Whoever it was wasn't trying to break anything. They were being… polite.
Like before.
Like always.
His chest tightened. His fins flicked instinctively, a faint blue glow pulsing before he forced them still. No. No, no, no.
Another pebble. This one followed by a familiar whisper, muffled through the glass.
"Aaron?"
His heart slammed so hard it hurt.
Kane. Or Nathan. He couldn't tell which — the voice blurred with memory, with afternoons spent skipping class, with laughter and stupid jokes and a version of himself that had never needed to hide.
They didn't know.
Of course they didn't.
Aaron curled his fingers into the blanket, claws catching slightly in the fabric. His breathing went shallow. If he looked out the window, if they saw even a hint of blue, even the wrong shadow—
His mind spiraled instantly, cruel and vivid. Their face twisting in fear. Phones coming out. Someone yelling. Someone running.
Monster.
Experiment.
Killer.
The internet's words echoed louder than the quiet morning ever could.
Another pebble hit the glass, followed by a sheepish laugh.
"Dude, I know you're awake. Your light's on."
Aaron swallowed hard. His light. He hadn't even thought about it.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't exist.
Outside, the silence stretched. Then footsteps shifted, hesitant.
"…Okay," the voice said softly. "Uh. I'll wait for a bit."
That was worse.
Waiting meant care. Waiting meant they weren't here to accuse him, or mock him, or ask about the videos lighting up every screen in the world. Waiting meant they'd come because they were worried.
Aaron squeezed his eyes shut, a quiet tremor running through him as he pressed his forehead into his knees.
They can't see you like this.
The voice in his head stirred — not sharp, not cruel. Just there.
You're still you, it murmured. Even if they don't know that yet.
He didn't answer it.
Outside, the pebbles stopped. The morning carried on like nothing was wrong. Birds called. A car passed in the distance.
And inside his room, Aaron stayed perfectly still, terrified that the smallest movement might shatter the fragile boundary between who he was… and who the world thought he'd become.
Another pebble tapped the glass.
Then silence.
Aaron stayed frozen, heart pounding so loudly he was sure it would give him away. His fins ached where he held them still, the faint blue glow pulsing once—twice—before he forced it down, like holding a breath for far too long.
Outside, someone shifted their weight.
"Aaron?" Kane's voice again. Closer this time. "You okay, man?"
Aaron didn't answer.
He couldn't.
A shadow passed across the thin curtain — the unmistakable shape of someone stepping closer to the window, trying to peer inside without being obvious about it. The fabric dimmed, then brightened again as a hand brushed against it.
Aaron's stomach dropped.
Don't look, his instincts screamed.
But the curtain moved anyway.
Just a little.
Not enough to reveal him fully — not enough to give away fins or tail or the truth coiled beneath his skin.
But enough.
Light spilled through the narrow gap, catching on the edge of his arm where the glow hadn't fully faded. A thin, impossible streak of blue shimmered once, then vanished as Aaron recoiled back into the shadows.
Outside, Kane froze.
The silence sharpened.
"…Did you see that?" Kane muttered, half to himself.
Aaron pressed a hand to his mouth, claws digging into his palm to keep from making a sound. His breath came shallow, uneven.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I—" Kane laughed softly, nervous. "Okay. That's… that's weird."
He stepped back, the curtain falling still again. Through the fabric, Aaron could see his silhouette scratching the back of his head, pacing once like he didn't quite know what to do with himself.
"Maybe I've been online too much," Kane said under his breath. "Probably just the light."
Probably.
But his voice wasn't convinced.
Kane lingered there, staring at the window like he expected it to stare back.
"Text me, yeah?" he said finally, quieter now. "Even if you don't wanna talk. Just… let me know you're alive."
The words hit harder than anything else had.
Footsteps retreated across the gravel. A gate clicked softly shut. Then nothing.
Aaron slid down against the wall, knees pulling to his chest as his glow finally bled back into the room, faint and trembling. His reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass — not a monster, not a myth.
Just a boy who couldn't answer a window anymore.
He felt it, the voice murmured gently. Not the truth. Just the wrongness.
Aaron swallowed, eyes burning.
"That's worse," he whispered.
The voice didn't argue.
The moment the footsteps faded for good, something inside Aaron finally gave way.
His legs folded beneath him without warning, his back sliding down the wall until he hit the floor with a dull thud he barely felt. The room felt too big. Too bright. Too loud, even in its quiet.
He couldn't breathe.
His chest hitched sharply, then again, then faster — shallow, panicked gulps of air that never seemed to reach his lungs. His vision blurred at the edges, blue light pulsing erratically along his fins and tail like a broken heartbeat.
"No—no—no—" he whispered, the words tumbling over each other without shape or meaning.
Images crashed through his mind, uninvited and merciless.
Kane's face, twisted in fear instead of confusion.
Phones raised. Voices shouting.
Someone screaming kill it instead of his name.
The lab again — alarms, glass, the woman's eyes just before everything went wrong. The sound his own body made when it moved faster than thought, stronger than restraint. The aftermath. The stillness.
Aaron curled in on himself instinctively, tail wrapping tight around his torso as if it could hold him together. His paws pressed against his ears, claws scraping softly as his breath spiraled further out of control.
They'll see you.
They'll know.
They'll hunt you.
The thoughts overlapped, clawing, stacking until there was no space left inside his head for anything else.
"I didn't mean to," he gasped, voice breaking, words torn loose between breaths. "I didn't—I didn't—"
His body shook violently now, every muscle locked between fight and flight with nowhere to go. His tail tightened, glowing faintly as it coiled around him like a lifeline, his paws pulling close to his chest as though he could disappear into himself if he folded small enough.
The floor was cold beneath him. Solid. Real.
But nothing else felt real anymore.
Faces blurred together in his mind — strangers, soldiers, scientists, people with signs and weapons and hatred in their eyes. He imagined hands grabbing at him, restraints snapping shut, bullets tearing through blue light and fur alike.
Or worse—
People cheering.
The idea made his stomach turn.
His breathing finally broke into ragged sobs, silent but violent, his chest spasming as tears soaked into the fur of his paws. He rocked slightly where he lay, trapped inside a body that had become both armor and prison.
This is why you hide, the voice said softly — not accusing, not cruel. Just stating a truth he was already learning the hard way. This is why you go quiet.
Aaron didn't answer.
He couldn't.
All he could do was cling to himself on the floor of his childhood room, wrapped in glowing blue and fear and grief, while the world outside kept turning — loud, curious, and hungry.
And somewhere deep inside, a slow, bitter realization began to settle:
That this pain wouldn't make him louder.
It would make him disappear.
David knocked once.
Then twice.
"Aaron?" he called, keeping his voice deliberately light. Too light. "It's… uh—late breakfast, if you're up."
No answer.
He frowned, hand hovering near the door longer than necessary before he pushed it open.
The room was dim, curtains half-drawn against the morning. For a split second, David didn't register what he was seeing—his brain refused to assemble it into something real.
Then he saw the glow.
Aaron was on the floor.
Curled so tightly in on himself that he almost didn't look human at all, tail wrapped around his body like a shield, paws tucked close to his chest. His fins flickered faintly with exhausted pulses of blue, uneven and tired, like a light running out of power.
David's breath caught.
"Oh—" He stopped himself, instinctively lowering his voice, as if loudness alone might shatter whatever fragile balance Aaron had left. "Aaron…"
No response.
Up close, he could see the tremor still running through him, subtle but constant. The way Aaron's chest rose and fell too fast, too shallow. His claws had dug into his own fur hard enough to leave impressions.
This wasn't defiance.
This wasn't rebellion.
This was fear, raw and unchecked.
David took a step forward, then hesitated. For the first time since the lab, since the reports and protocols and contingency plans, he didn't know what the right move was. There was no clipboard for this. No procedure.
Just his son, broken open on the floor.
He knelt slowly, joints protesting as much as his conscience did.
"Aaron," he said again, softer now. "It's Dad. You're home. You're safe."
The word safe felt fragile in his mouth.
Aaron didn't uncurl. Didn't look up. But his breathing hitched at the sound of David's voice, a sharp inhale like his body had been bracing for something worse.
David swallowed hard.
This wasn't a little kid hiding under a blanket after a nightmare.
This was someone who had seen death. Caused it. Lived with it.
Someone whose mind had been pushed past its limits and left there.
Carefully, David sat down on the floor beside him, keeping just enough distance not to crowd him.
"I wasn't… calling you because you were in trouble," he said quietly. "Breakfast just… happened late. That's all."
Silence.
David looked at Aaron's glowing tail, at the way it tightened reflexively when he shifted. At how small he was trying to make himself.
And something inside David finally cracked—not loudly, not dramatically—but deeply.
He's not a variable, he realized.
He's not a phenomenon.
He's not a thing I can monitor and adjust.
He's my son.
"I know I haven't handled any of this well," David said, voice rougher now. Honest. "I know I've… looked at you like a problem to solve."
Aaron's ears twitched.
David took that as permission to continue.
"But you're not just… something that happened in a lab," he said. "And you're not a little kid I can pretend will bounce back from this."
His gaze softened, eyes stinging.
"You're hurting. And I see that now."
Slowly, carefully, David reached out—not to touch, not yet—but to rest his hand on the floor near Aaron's curled form. An offering. Not a demand.
"You don't have to explain anything," he said. "You don't have to be okay. You don't even have to talk."
A long moment passed.
Aaron's breathing began to slow—just a fraction—but it was enough to matter.
"I'm here," David added quietly. "Not as a scientist. Not as a supervisor."
A pause.
"…Just as your dad."
The glow around Aaron dimmed slightly, like a storm easing, though the damage was still there. He didn't uncurl. Didn't lift his head.
But he stayed.
And for David, that was everything.
It took a long time.
Long enough for the room to feel still again, for the panic to ebb not all at once, but in uneven waves that slowly lost their strength. Aaron's breathing steadied first — still shaky, but no longer frantic. The blue glow along his fins dimmed until it was little more than a soft halo.
David didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He stayed exactly where he was, a steady presence at Aaron's side, as solid and patient as the floor beneath them.
Eventually, Aaron's trembling slowed enough that he could feel his surroundings again — the cool air, the familiar scent of home, the quiet weight of his dad sitting nearby. It was enough. Just barely.
His paw shifted.
Tentative. Uncertain.
His claws brushed against David's hand, then retreated, then returned — this time staying. David's fingers didn't close around his. They simply stayed, letting Aaron decide how much contact he could bear.
After another long moment, Aaron slowly, very slowly, began to uncurl.
His tail loosened first, sliding away from his chest like it was afraid to leave him exposed. Then his shoulders straightened, and he pushed himself upright, drawing his knees up beneath his chin, arms wrapped loosely around them. He looked smaller like this — exhausted, hollow-eyed, far older than he had any right to be.
He kept one hand on David's.
As if letting go might send him right back into the dark.
"I—" Aaron's voice cracked on the first attempt. He swallowed and tried again. "Something happened this morning."
David nodded once, encouraging but silent.
"Kane came by," Aaron said quietly. "Or… maybe it was Nathan. I think it was Kane."
His fingers tightened unconsciously against David's.
"He threw pebbles at my window. Like before." A humorless breath left him. "Like nothing ever changed."
His ears flattened as the memory resurfaced.
"He almost saw me," Aaron continued. "Just for a second. The curtain moved and the light caught my arm and—" His breath stuttered. "I think he saw the glow."
David's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
"He didn't know what it was," Aaron said quickly, as if needing to clarify. "He didn't… say anything. But I could tell. He felt it. That something wasn't right."
Aaron stared at the floor, claws flexing slightly.
"And all I could think was—what if that's how it starts?" he whispered. "What if the next time he doesn't laugh it off? What if he's scared?"
His voice dropped even lower.
"What if everyone is?"
A long pause.
"I can handle strangers thinking I'm a monster," Aaron admitted, the words heavy and bitter. "People online, people who've never met me. That's… awful, but it's distant."
He looked up then, eyes shining faintly blue with unshed tears.
"But my friends?" he asked softly. "If they look at me like that…"
He shook his head.
"I don't think I could survive that."
The room was quiet again, thick with unspoken grief.
David finally spoke, his voice low and steady. "You're not wrong to be scared."
Aaron flinched slightly, surprised.
"Anyone would be," David continued. "Especially after everything you've been through."
He shifted closer, not crowding, just enough to make his presence undeniable.
"But you are not a monster," he said firmly. "And you didn't stop being Aaron because your body changed."
Aaron let out a shaky breath, leaning just a fraction closer — not quite against him, but close enough to feel the warmth.
"I don't know how to be seen anymore," Aaron murmured. "Every way feels dangerous."
David squeezed his hand — gently, finally.
"Then we'll figure it out together," he said. "At your pace. On your terms."
Aaron closed his eyes.
For the first time since the morning began, the fear loosened its grip — not gone, not healed, but quiet enough to breathe around.
And for now, that was enough.