Aiden left the room before sunrise.
He didn't check out properly. He slid the key under the door like the owner had suggested and used the back stairs instead of the front. No cameras there—just a dusty landing and a fire exit that stuck when you pulled too hard.
He didn't pull hard.
Outside, the town was quiet in the way places got before commuters woke up. He walked for twenty minutes before stopping, keeping a steady pace that wouldn't draw attention. He crossed the main road once, then cut through a residential block where lights were still off and cars sat untouched.
He checked his phone behind a row of hedges. One bar, unstable. He left it off.
The plan for the day was simple: move far enough to stay ahead of classification, but not so far that he tripped alarms meant for people crossing borders quickly. No airports. No trains. No highways with tolls.
Local buses were an option later, if he paid cash and got on mid-route.
For now, walking worked.
By mid-morning he reached a larger town with a bus depot, grocery stores, and enough foot traffic to disappear into. He went straight to a public restroom, washed his face, and changed layers. Hoodie off, jacket on. Gloves stayed.
He looked normal enough.
He bought breakfast and ate standing outside, eyes tracking reflections in windows and the glass doors across the street. No one doubled back. No one stared longer than necessary.
He waited.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
Still nothing.
He headed to the bus depot.
The depot was old. That helped. Cash-only tickets, handwritten schedules taped to glass. Aiden stood in line, kept his posture loose, and paid for a route that would take him two towns over, stopping at small places in between.
He boarded halfway down the line instead of at the start.
The bus smelled like old upholstery and engine oil. He sat near the middle, not by the windows. He watched the driver through the mirror. The driver didn't look back.
The bus rolled out.
For the first time since the construction site, Aiden let himself relax a fraction.
Not because he felt safe.
Because friction mattered.
Being in motion with other people created noise. Noise made signals harder to isolate.
He stayed on the bus for four stops, then got off without a reason. He waited five minutes, crossed the road, and caught another bus heading in a slightly different direction.
No pattern. No straight line.
By early afternoon, he was thirty miles from where he'd slept the night before.
He stopped near a strip mall and ate again. He avoided sitting. Sitting made people notice who stayed too long.
While he ate, he checked the news.
Still no name.
Still no description beyond "unidentified individual."
But the language had tightened.
"Anomalous readings."
"Non-industrial force."
"Ongoing federal coordination."
That last part was now repeated across outlets.
Federal coordination didn't mean agents knocking on doors yet. It meant emails, conference calls, requests for data.
It meant analysts.
Analysts took time.
Time was what he was buying.
He locked the phone and left.
The afternoon brought the first complication.
He noticed it at a four-way stop near a pharmacy. A gray sedan sat across the intersection longer than necessary. When he crossed, it rolled forward and stopped again.
Could've been nothing.
He walked two blocks, turned right, then left. The sedan reappeared at the far end of the street, moving slowly.
Aiden didn't speed up. He didn't look back again. He crossed the street and ducked into a laundromat.
Inside, the noise of machines filled the space. He took a seat near the back, pulled out his phone, and waited.
Five minutes.
The sedan didn't pass.
Ten minutes.
Still nothing.
He waited fifteen, then left through the side door.
Outside, the street was empty.
That told him two things.
One: someone had been checking behavior, not following directly.
Two: he'd just confirmed he noticed.
That wasn't ideal.
He adjusted his plan immediately.
He avoided staying in any one place longer than twenty minutes after that. He moved through grocery stores without buying anything, cut through parks, walked along frontage roads, then doubled back on footpaths.
By late afternoon, he was irritated.
Not scared. Not panicked.
Irritated.
Every time his pulse climbed, he checked himself. Slowed his breathing. Kept his hands loose.
He didn't think about power. He thought about mistakes.
He made fewer of them.
He found a cheap motel on the edge of a highway interchange and paid for one night. Cash. Fake name again.
The room was cleaner than expected. He locked the door, checked the bathroom window, and tested the bed carefully.
No creaks beyond normal.
He showered and changed. Then he sat on the bed and planned.
Staying one night was fine. Two would be pushing it.
He checked his phone again.
Signal held longer this time.
A message came through immediately.
Unknown:
Your route suggests avoidance, not flight. That's smart.
Aiden stared at the screen, expression flat.
He didn't reply.
Another message followed.
You should know the crater pattern doesn't match any known gamma event.
That was new.
Not helpful. But new.
He typed, then erased, then typed again.
Stop messaging me.
The response came after a delay.
I will. For now.
That bothered him more than persistence would have.
He powered the phone off and removed the battery pack from the backpack, wrapping it in clothing. If someone was triangulating intermittently, making it harder mattered.
That evening, he ate and lay down with the lights off. He didn't sleep immediately.
He listened.
Cars passed. A truck downshifted on the ramp. Somewhere nearby, a door slammed.
Normal.
He slept in short blocks again.
Morning brought confirmation that the window was shrinking.
When he checked the news, a new detail stood out.
"Consultation with enhanced-phenomena specialists has begun."
No names attached.
That meant someone with experience had been looped in.
Experience shortened timelines.
He left within the hour.
He spent the day moving parallel to the highway without using it. Rural roads. Small towns. No repeat stops.
He noticed more patrol cars. Not chasing. Just present.
That meant coordination was spreading.
By late afternoon, he reached a city large enough to hide in but small enough not to be a hub.
He rented a room above a closed storefront and paid for two nights up front.
Inside, he sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall.
This pace wasn't sustainable forever.
He needed either information he could trust or a place to slow down without being boxed in.
Neither existed yet.
That night, his phone vibrated again.
He didn't check it immediately.
He waited until the vibration stopped, then turned the phone on.
One bar.
Unknown:
They're about to ask the wrong questions. When that happens, people get hurt.
Aiden stared at the message.
He typed one line.
You don't know that.
The reply came slower this time.
I do. I've seen it before.
Aiden considered that.
Then typed:
Stop guessing my moves.
The response didn't come.
He turned the phone off and set it aside.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling.
No prophecy. No voices. No destiny.
Just pressure from outside and limited options inside.
He wasn't trying to save anyone. He wasn't trying to understand the universe.
He was trying not to get pinned to a board with a label he couldn't peel off.
Tomorrow, he'd change direction again.
Not randomly.
Deliberately.
Because the fastest way to lose control wasn't panic.
It was predictability.