Morning light sliced through the half-drawn curtains like nosy neighbors peeking in, turning the apartment's dust motes into tiny floating stars that danced without a care. Christna stood frozen in the middle of the living room, bare feet planted on the threadbare rug, while Elara hovered near the door like a guard dog who knew the fight was already lost. The three polite knocks had turned into a steady, rhythmic tapping, the kind that said "we're patient, but not forever," and the voice outside kept repeating the same calm lie: "We just want to talk, Ms. Bale. Open the door and let's sort this out." Christna's pulse thrummed in her ears, not fear exactly, more like the delicious buzz before a storm breaks loose.
Elara's face had gone the color of old paper, eyes darting between the door, the window, and the tiny kitchen exit that led to the fire escape nobody had used in years. She whispered, "Back room. Now. Through the closet—there's a panel." But Christna didn't move. The Chaos Force inside her was awake and chatty, curling around her ribs like a mischievous friend whispering, *Let's play.* She could feel it pooling in her palms, warm and eager, begging for permission to do something stupid and spectacular. Elara grabbed her wrist, nails digging in just enough to hurt. "Don't you dare."
The tapping stopped. Silence stretched, thick and mocking. Then came the soft *click* of a lockpick, followed by the unmistakable snick of the deadbolt turning. Elara's breath hitched, a tiny sound that carried all eighteen years of running. Christna stepped forward instead of back, violet eyes flaring bright enough to cast purple shadows across the walls. The door creaked open an inch, then two, revealing a man in a crisp dark suit, tie perfectly knotted, smile perfectly polite. Behind him, two more figures in tactical black, hands resting casually near holsters. "Good morning," the suit said, voice smooth as oil. "We've been looking for you a long time, Christna."
The name hit like a slap. Not "Ms. Bale." Not "the girl." *Christna.* They knew. They had always known. Elara lunged for the fire escape window, fumbling with the latch, but the suit raised one hand—casual, almost bored—and the window slammed shut with a bang that rattled the glass. A faint shimmer of suppression tech rippled across the frame, turning escape into a joke. Christna felt the Chaos Force surge in response, hot and indignant, like a kid whose toy had just been snatched away. Her fingers twitched.
"Don't," Elara hissed, voice cracking. But the word was too late. Christna's temper—small, sharp, teenage—finally snapped. She didn't think. She didn't plan. She just *felt* the spark leap from her chest to her fingertips, violet light crackling like static electricity on steroids. The air in the room thickened, tasting of ozone and burnt sugar, and every lightbulb overhead flared once, bright and angry, before popping in perfect unison. Shards tinkled to the floor like expensive confetti. The suit's smile faltered for the first time.
The two tactical guys moved—fast, trained, weapons half-drawn—but Christna was faster. She flicked her wrist, not dramatic, just annoyed, and a sudden gust of wind ripped through the apartment like an invisible freight train. It slammed the first operative back against the wall, pinning him with enough force to crack the plaster in a spiderweb pattern. The second one staggered, rifle swinging wide, and Christna followed with a second flick—sharper this time. The man's boots left the ground; he flew backward through the open door, crashing into the hallway outside with a satisfying *thud* that echoed down the stairwell.
The suit didn't flinch. He simply adjusted his tie, eyes narrowing with professional curiosity. "Impressive," he murmured. "Raw. Unrefined. But impressive." He reached into his jacket—not for a gun, but for a small black device that looked like a fancy remote. Christna's instincts screamed danger. The Chaos Force screamed louder. She thrust both hands forward, palms out, and the air between them shimmered violet. A wall of force slammed into the suit, shoving him backward into the hallway, where he hit the opposite wall with a grunt. The device clattered from his fingers, skittering across the floorboards.
Elara grabbed Christna's arm, yanking her toward the bedroom. "Now! Move!" They bolted through the doorway, slamming the thin wooden door behind them. Christna could hear shouts from the hallway—more boots, more voices, the crackle of radios calling for backup. Her heart hammered, wild and exhilarated, the Chaos Force purring in her veins like it had just won a prize. She shoved the closet aside, revealing the hidden panel Elara had mentioned. It swung open with a groan, exposing a narrow crawlspace that led to the building's ancient ventilation shaft.
Elara pushed Christna in first. "Go. Keep going. I'll slow them." Christna spun, eyes blazing. "No. We go together." Elara's face twisted—love, terror, pride all crashing together. "You're the one they want. You're the one who matters. Go." Before Christna could argue, Elara slammed the panel shut from the outside and wedged a chair under the closet door. The last thing Christna heard was her mother's voice, fierce and unbreakable: "I love you. Run."
Christna crawled into the darkness, silver hair brushing dust and cobwebs, the Chaos Force humming happily against her skin like it approved of the chaos she'd just unleashed. Behind her, the apartment door burst open again, boots thundering, voices shouting orders. She didn't look back. She kept moving, heart racing, power singing, the first real taste of freedom burning bright in her chest. Newhaven's underbelly waited below—alleys, rooftops, shadows—and for the first time in her life, Christna wasn't running away from something.
She was running toward whatever came next.