Ethan ran.
Not jogging. Not fleeing.
Running.
The kind of running where your lungs turn to glass and your vision tunnels and your brain screams MOVE MOVE MOVE because stopping means dying.
Behind him: sirens. Shouting. The distinct crack of a fire extinguisher being discharged.
Someone yelling: "—containment protocol Alpha-Seven, we have a Class-B botanical anomaly—"
Ethan didn't look back.
He vaulted a chain-link fence—when had he gotten athletic?—landed hard on asphalt, stumbled, kept running.
His hands were still glowing.
Faint. Pulsing. Like he'd shoved glow sticks under his skin.
[Good cardio! 😊]
The text appeared in the corner of his vision. Translucent. Flickering like subtitles on a broken TV.
[Current LE: 447/500]
[Stamina regeneration: +2 LE/minute (sunlight exposure)]
[Fun fact: You're now 14% more efficient at photosynthesis than a healthy fern!]
"Shut up—" Ethan gasped, dodging into an alley.
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Buzzed again.
And again.
Fuck.
He yanked it out while running, thumb swiping blindly—
The screen showed a video call.
Unknown Number.
The caller ID photo was a leaf.
Just. A green leaf. Perfect veins. Dewdrop on the tip.
Against every survival instinct, Ethan answered.
A woman's face filled the screen.
Late twenties. Sharp cheekbones. Dark hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. Eyes like wet stone—grey, cold, assessing.
She was beautiful the way a scalpel is beautiful.
"Ethan Cole." Not a question. "Stop running. You're bleeding chlorophyll. Fire department has thermal scanners. You'll be tagged in forty seconds."
Ethan's legs locked.
He stumbled to a stop, pressed his back against a dumpster, chest heaving.
"Who—"
"Mira Laurent. Verdant Concord. We texted. You didn't respond." Her voice was clipped. Efficient. "Listen very carefully. In thirty seconds, an NYPD drone will round the corner behind you. It's equipped with tranquilizer darts loaded with glyphosate—yes, weedkiller—which will put you in a coma for six to eight weeks."
Ethan's stomach dropped.
"You're lying—"
"Check your left hand."
He looked down.
His palm was smeared with green.
Not paint.
Sap.
His sap.
He'd cut his hand on the fence. The wound was already closing—healing fast—but the blood leaking out wasn't red.
It was chlorophyll-green.
Glowing faintly in the shadow of the dumpster.
"Oh god—"
"Twenty seconds," Mira said. "Duck into the basement access on your right. Green door. Rusted handle. Now."
Ethan looked right.
There was a green door. Half-hidden behind trash bags.
"How do you—"
"Satellite imagery. Fifteen seconds. Move."
He moved.
Grabbed the handle—rusted, flaking—yanked.
Locked.
"It's—"
"Use the LE."
"The what—"
[She means Life Essence. Your magic plant juice. 😤]
[Channel 20 LE into the lock. Rust is oxidized iron. Iron loves chlorophyll. You can corrode it faster.]
[Just... think green thoughts and touch the metal.]
"That's insane—"
Mira's voice cut through, ice-cold: "Ten seconds. Do it or get darted."
Ethan pressed his glowing hand against the lock.
Think green thoughts.
He thought about the oak sapling. The way its roots had punched through concrete. The way it had drunk the life he'd poured into it, greedy and desperate and alive—
The lock dissolved.
Not broke. Not rusted.
Melted. Flaking into orange-brown powder that smelled like wet metal and compost.
The door swung open.
Ethan threw himself inside, slammed it shut.
Darkness.
Basement. Smelled like mildew and rat piss and something rotting.
His phone screen was the only light.
Mira's face stared out at him, expression unchanged.
"Good," she said. "Now stay quiet."
Outside, the whir of a drone.
Ethan pressed his back against the door, holding his breath.
The drone hovered. Five seconds. Ten.
Then moved on.
Ethan exhaled, legs shaking.
"What the fuck is happening—"
"You awakened," Mira said. "Four hours ago. Along with roughly 800,000 other people globally. Most of them are dead or detained already."
"Dead—"
"Seventy-three percent of new Users experience fatal LE depletion within the first six hours. They use their powers without understanding the cost. Burn through their reserves. Organs shut down." She paused. "You're alive because you're either very lucky or very stupid. Probably both."
Ethan's hands were shaking.
"I didn't—I didn't ask for this—"
"Nobody asks. The Primordial Seeds don't care about consent." Mira's eyes narrowed. "You touched one. Where?"
"The greenhouse. Brooklyn Botanical—"
"Which greenhouse?"
"The—the tropical one. There was a fire—"
Mira's expression shifted. Barely. A microflicker of something that might have been alarm.
"The Cretaceous Wing?"
"I—I don't know, there were ferns and—"
"Fuck." She exhaled, sharp. "Ethan. Listen. That wasn't a normal Seed. That was a Primordial Fragment. Do you understand what that means?"
"No—"
"It means you're not just a User. You're a Conduit. The planet chose you specifically." She leaned closer to the camera. "And that means three things. One: Every faction on Earth is going to want you. Two: Most of them will kill you to get what's in your blood. Three: You have approximately eighteen hours before Thorne Industries tracks your genetic signature and sends a kill team."
Ethan's mouth went dry.
"Thorne—the pharmaceutical company?"
"Was a pharmaceutical company. Now they're the largest Verdant harvesting operation in North America. They kidnap Users. Drain them. Sell the LE on black markets." Mira's voice was flat. Clinical. "Current survival rate for captives: eleven percent."
The walls of the basement felt like they were closing in.
"I—I need to call my mom—"
"Don't."
"What—"
"Your phone is compromised. The second you touched the Seed, your biometric data pinged every surveillance network in the city. Thorne has your number. Your address. Your mother's address." Mira paused. "If you call her, they'll trace it. If they trace it, they'll use her as bait."
Ethan's vision swam.
"No. No, you're lying—"
"Check Twitter. #VerdantAwakening. Scroll down."
He did.
His hands were shaking so hard he almost dropped the phone.
The feed was a nightmare.
Videos. Dozens of them.
A teenager in Mumbai, vines erupting from her chest, screaming as soldiers dragged her into a van.
An old man in Berlin, kneeling in a park, trees growing from his spine. He was smiling. Crying. The video cut off when the sniper round hit.
A woman in São Paulo, holding her daughter. Both of them glowing green. A SWAT team surrounding them.
The comments were worse.
> burn them all
> this is God's punishment
> my neighbor started growing moss on his face and tried to eat my dog
Ethan dropped the phone.
It clattered on the concrete.
Mira's voice, tinny and distant: "Ethan. Ethan. Pick up the phone."
He did. Slowly.
"I can't—I can't do this—"
"You don't have a choice."
"I'm not a soldier, I'm not a—a fucking superhero, I'm a grad student who waters plants for minimum wage—"
"Irrelevant." Mira's voice was cold. "You have 447 LE in your system. That's enough to regrow a forest or kill twenty people. The world doesn't care what you were. It cares what you can do."
Silence.
Ethan stared at his hands.
Still glowing.
Still wrong.
"What do I do?" he whispered.
For the first time, Mira's expression softened.
Barely.
"Survive the next eighteen hours. Get to the Concord safehouse. Let us teach you how to control this before you accidentally kill someone." She paused. "Or yourself."
"And if I say no?"
"Then Thorne finds you. Or the Thornbound cult does. Or the NYPD does. Your choice."
Ethan closed his eyes.
Took a breath.
Opened them.
"Where's the safehouse?"
Mira smiled. Thin. Sharp.
"Prospect Park. Southwest corner. There's a dead elm tree near the lake. Touch it. Say 'sanctuary.' Someone will meet you."
"That's—that's insane—"
"Welcome to your new life." The call disconnected.
The screen went black.
Ethan stood in the dark basement, alone, hands glowing faint green in the shadows.
From above: sirens. Shouting. The heavy stomp of boots on pavement.
[Tutorial Quest Updated: Reach the safehouse.]
[Reward: +200 LE, SKILL UNLOCK]
[Failure: You die. Probably screaming. 😊]
[Current distance: 2.3 miles.]
[Estimated Thorne Industries arrival: 17 hours, 42 minutes.]
[Good luck! 🌱]
Ethan looked at the door.
Then at his hands.
Then at the ceiling, where faint cracks spiderwebbed through old concrete.
He could feel roots.
Below him. In the earth beneath the basement floor.
Old roots. Dead roots. Dried-out capillaries from trees cut down decades ago.
But they were still there.
Waiting.
And if he concentrated—really concentrated—he could feel them reaching toward him.
Hungry.
Ethan swallowed.
"Fuck," he whispered.
He pushed open the door.
And ran toward the trees.