Aiden woke to voices.
Not close. Not loud. Just audible enough to register through the thin wall.
Two men downstairs. The cadence of their speech mattered more than the words—measured, unhurried, the kind of tone people used when they weren't worried about being overheard. He stayed still and listened until one voice dropped out and a door opened, then closed.
He waited another minute.
Silence returned to its usual shape.
Aiden sat up and swung his legs off the bed. The floor didn't creak. He stood and stretched once, slow, keeping his weight centered. No reaction from the room.
He checked the time. 7:18 a.m.
He didn't reach for the phone.
First, he went to the window.
The street below was already awake. Delivery van double-parked. Someone unlocking a shop gate. A woman jogging with earbuds in. Normal traffic, normal rhythm.
No idling cars.
That was new.
He washed his face, dressed, and packed without thinking about it. The bag settled on his shoulders the way it always did now. Familiar. Balanced.
Before leaving, he unlocked the door and waited with his hand on the knob. Nothing moved outside. He stepped into the hallway and walked down the stairs without looking back.
He ate breakfast at a place that smelled like grease and coffee. He took a booth near the window, ordered eggs, paid cash. The waitress set the plate down and refilled his cup without comment.
"You passing through?" she asked as she moved away.
"Yeah," Aiden said.
That answer still worked.
He finished eating and left a tip that didn't draw attention. Outside, he walked three blocks before turning. Then three more before stopping.
He turned his phone on.
One bar. Stable.
No messages.
He powered it off again and kept moving.
By mid-morning, he reached the edge of the business district. Office buildings. Banks. The kind of places where people wore badges and forgot faces by noon.
He entered a lobby and stood near the directory, pretending to read. Security glanced at him, then away. No challenge.
He left through a different door.
Across the street, a man stepped out of a coffee shop and paused, checking his phone. Too clean. Too alert.
Aiden crossed at the light and didn't look back.
At the next block, he cut left, then right, then slowed enough to let a crowd pass him. He didn't rush. He didn't hide.
When he checked the reflection in a window two blocks later, the man was gone.
That told him the line was still thin.
At noon, his phone vibrated while powered off.
Once.
He stopped walking and leaned against a building, letting two people pass before he turned the phone on.
Two bars flickered, then settled to one.
A message appeared immediately.
Brashear:
We need to talk. Not about you.
Aiden stared at the screen.
Then about what? he typed.
The reply came after a short delay.
About the people trying to define you without data.
Aiden exhaled slowly.
You said that was under control.
It was, Brashear replied. It's changing.
Aiden didn't answer right away. He watched traffic flow through the intersection and counted the seconds between lights.
Define changing, he typed.
Another pause.
They want a name. A category. Something they can brief.
That tracked.
People didn't like variables without labels.
And you don't, Aiden typed.
I want time, Brashear replied. Names end conversations.
Aiden almost smiled.
Almost.
Where are you? he typed.
Not somewhere useful, Brashear replied. Which is why I'm calling.
Aiden checked the sidewalk, then typed.
I'm not meeting today.
I know, Brashear replied. This isn't a meeting.
That got his attention.
Aiden walked again, slower now. He let the city slide past him while he read.
There's pressure to initiate a demonstration, Brashear wrote. Something controlled. Something public enough to settle nerves.
Aiden stopped.
No, he typed.
I said demonstration, not display, Brashear replied. Engineering, not theater.
Aiden closed his eyes briefly.
You want me to do what, he typed.
The reply came in pieces.
They want proof you're stable under external stress.
They want to see response curves.
They want it filmed.
Aiden's jaw tightened.
That's a setup, he typed.
It's a compromise, Brashear replied. Between nothing and containment.
Aiden looked up and scanned the street. No one watching him. No one waiting.
I said no public, he typed.
You said no classification, Brashear replied. This avoids it.
That wasn't wrong.
That didn't make it acceptable.
He walked for another ten minutes before responding.
Who's pushing this? he typed.
The delay was longer this time.
Defense, Brashear replied. And people who answer to them.
Aiden stopped under an overpass and leaned against the cool concrete. Traffic roared above him.
If I say no, he typed.
Then they escalate quietly, Brashear replied. And you won't see it coming.
Aiden stared at the phone.
If I say yes, he typed.
Then I can keep it narrow, Brashear replied. And boring.
Boring mattered.
Aiden turned the phone off and stood there until the traffic overhead thinned. He stepped out from under the overpass and walked toward the river.
He didn't like demonstrations. He didn't like cameras. He didn't like being used to calm people who didn't understand what they were afraid of.
But he understood leverage.
And he understood timing.
He turned the phone on again.
One bar.
Details, he typed.
The reply came immediately.
Structural test site. Abandoned bridge reinforcement project. No civilians.
Materials only. No personnel within a hundred meters.
One pass. You leave.
Aiden read it twice.
And afterward? he typed.
Afterward, I get to say you cooperated, Brashear replied. And they get to stop guessing.
Aiden closed his eyes.
No family. No work. No background, he typed.
Agreed, Brashear replied.
No edits, Aiden typed.
There was a pause.
Raw footage stays sealed, Brashear replied. Independent verification only.
That was as good as it would get.
Aiden turned the phone off and walked until his legs burned.
He crossed into another neighborhood and sat on a bench facing the river. He watched water slide past concrete pilings and tried to imagine himself as a line on someone else's graph.
Stable. Predictable. Safe.
He didn't like it.
But he liked cages less.
By late afternoon, he made arrangements.
Not with Brashear. With himself.
He rented a room for the night in a different part of the city and packed light. He ate early and didn't drink coffee. He wanted his head clear.
He checked the exits twice before sitting on the bed.
His phone stayed off.
Night came quietly.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling, replaying the baseline session. The slab cracking. The meters leveling off. Brashear's face when the data flattened instead of spiking.
They wanted proof of control.
He could give them proof of restraint.
Those weren't the same thing.
At 10:42 p.m., his phone vibrated once.
He turned it on.
Brashear:
Tomorrow. 09:00. I'll be remote. You won't see anyone you don't need to.
Aiden typed one line.
If anything goes wrong, I walk.
The reply came fast.
That's the plan.
Aiden shut the phone off and set it face-down on the table.
He didn't sleep right away.
He stared at the wall and thought about how easily cooperation turned into precedent. How quickly "one time" became "again."
Tomorrow, he'd draw a line.
Not in concrete.
Not on camera.
But in how far he was willing to go to keep control of his own story.
If they crossed it, he wouldn't argue.
He'd disappear.
And this time, he wouldn't bother leaving a trail to read.
He closed his eyes and let the city fade.
Morning would come fast.
And with it, a test that wasn't really about strength at all.