Chapter 3
The city didn't feel the same after him.
That was the first thing I noticed when morning came—not the light, not the noise, not even the lingering tension in my chest. It was the absence.
Ashfall was loud again.
The low hum of power threaded through the streets like electricity through walls. People moved with their gifts half-engaged without thinking about it—hovering inches above the ground, lights flickering, air bending around hurried bodies.
Normal.
But my apartment felt... wrong.
Too empty.
Like something had pressed close in the dark and left behind an imprint I couldn't scrub away.
I stood in my kitchen staring at nothing, fingers wrapped too tightly around my mug. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it again—the pressure, the warmth, the way the air had seemed to lean toward me.
You're safe tonight.
The words hadn't sounded like sound. They'd felt like breath.
I shook my head and took a long sip of coffee, grimacing when I realized it had gone cold.
Get it together.
I hadn't seen anyone. No shadow, no figure at the window. Just a sensation. A presence. My mind was filling in gaps because it wanted explanations.
That's what rational people did.
Still... my body hadn't gotten the memo.
Every nerve felt tuned too tight, like it was waiting for something to happen again.
The walk to work didn't help.
I caught myself glancing over my shoulder more than once, not out of fear—but expectation. As if the city itself might shift if I wasn't paying attention.
It didn't.
The café bell chimed as I stepped inside, and for half a second my heart jumped stupidly high in my chest.
Empty.
Just the low murmur of the espresso machine warming up and the smell of ground beans. I exhaled and tied my apron, feeling ridiculous.
"You look like you didn't sleep," Mira said from behind the counter, already elbow-deep in prep.
"I didn't," I admitted.
"Bad dreams?"
I hesitated. "Something like that."
She shot me a look. "That's the worst kind."
The morning passed slowly. Familiar faces, familiar orders. The city outside pressed on, indifferent to whatever private unraveling I was doing.
And then—
The air shifted.
It wasn't dramatic. No bending walls or flickering lights. Just a subtle change, like the pressure before a storm.
I froze with my hands on the counter.
My breath went shallow.
No.
Don't do this. Not again.
The bell rang.
He stood just inside the doorway, rain clinging to his jacket, dark hair damp and pushed back like he hadn't bothered fixing it. Same man as before. Same face.
Different presence.
The room felt smaller with him in it.
Not because he took up space—but because everything else seemed to step back.
Our eyes met.
His gaze didn't slide away. Didn't linger inappropriately. Just held, steady and unreadable, like he was cataloging something he'd already decided mattered.
My pulse stumbled.
"Hi," I heard myself say.
His eyes flicked briefly to my name tag.
"Elara."
The way he said it—quiet, deliberate—sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear.
"Hi," he replied.
He stepped forward.
Too close.
Not touching. Never touching. But the space between us compressed until I could feel the warmth of him, like standing near a live wire without contact.
My breath caught. I hated that he noticed.
His gaze dropped—not to my chest, not to anything crude—but to my throat, where my pulse betrayed me.
"You alright?" he asked softly.
I nodded too fast. "Fine."
He didn't call me out on the lie.
"Coffee?" I asked, needing something to do with my hands.
"Please."
I turned, grateful for the excuse, but the awareness didn't fade. If anything, it sharpened. Every movement felt magnified, like I was performing under a spotlight only he could see.
When I turned back, cup in hand, he hadn't moved.
He was still close.
Our fingers brushed this time—accidentally, barely—and the contact sent a jolt through me like static. I sucked in a breath before I could stop myself.
His hand stilled.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
The world narrowed to that inch of space where our skin had touched.
"I—sorry," I started.
"Don't," he said quietly.
The word landed heavy, intimate.
His voice dropped, close enough that I felt it more than heard it. I was acutely aware of how near his mouth was to my ear. Of how easily he could lean in.
He didn't.
That restraint did something dangerous to me.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
I hadn't noticed.
"I'm not afraid," I said before I could think better of it.
His lips curved faintly. Not a smile. Something sharper. "I know."
I swallowed.
He took the coffee, finally stepping back. The space rushed in between us, and I hadn't realized how much I'd been bracing until my shoulders sagged with the release.
"See you around, Elara," he said.
And then he was gone.
The bell chimed.
I stood there long after Mira cleared her throat loudly behind me.
"Friend of yours?" she asked.
I shook my head, pulse still racing. "No."
It felt like a lie, even if it wasn't.
The rest of the shift passed in a haze. I kept replaying the moment in my head—the brush of fingers, the way he'd known things about me I hadn't said.
You're shaking.
I know.
By the time I locked up and stepped back onto the street, the sky had darkened, clouds pressing low and heavy.
That was when I saw them.
Two Vanguard Authority agents stood across the street, pretending to look at a data pad. Their posture was relaxed. Casual.
Watching.
My stomach dropped.
I didn't move.
Neither did they.
The air around me tightened—not sharply, not violently—but with a familiar warmth that raised goosebumps along my arms.
A presence.
Behind me.
Not touching.
Just close enough that my breath stuttered and my skin prickled like it recognized him before my mind caught up.
"Don't look," a low voice murmured, so close I felt it against my ear.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I didn't turn.
"They're not here for you," he continued softly. "Not yet."
I should have pulled away.
I didn't.
His presence boxed me in gently, one arm braced against the wall beside my shoulder—not trapping me, just... there. A barrier. A promise.
"Walk," he said. "Slow. Like nothing's wrong."
"What if I don't?" I whispered.
There was a pause.
Then, closer—dangerously close—
"Then I step in," he said. "And they won't like that."
My breath came shallow. I could feel the heat of him, the steadiness, the absolute certainty in his tone.
I walked.
The agents didn't follow.
When I reached the corner, the pressure eased.
I turned—
He was gone.
But the afterimage of him lingered, burned into my senses.
I pressed my hand to my throat, trying to steady my breathing.
Whatever this was—
Whatever he was—
It wasn't over.
And I wasn't sure anymore that I wanted it to be.
I didn't tell anyone what happened.
Not Mira. Not my neighbor. Not the polite VA agent who showed up at my door two days later with a practiced smile and a tablet full of reassurances.
Some things felt too fragile to say out loud.
The city, however, had no such restraint.
Ashfall tightened around me.
It started small—subtle shifts in routine. Patrol drones hovered longer at intersections. Registry checkpoints popped up where there hadn't been any before. At work, a new camera appeared near the register, its lens just slightly angled wrong.
Watching me.
I noticed because I was looking now.
Because once you realize the world is paying attention, it's impossible to stop feeling it.
The knock came just after sunset.
I opened the door to find the same woman from before standing in my hallway, hands folded neatly in front of her. No uniform this time. Casual clothes. Disarming.
"Elara," she said warmly. "May I come in?"
I hesitated, then stepped aside.
She glanced around my apartment like she was admiring the décor, not cataloging exits. "We're concerned about you," she said gently.
"Why?" I asked.
She smiled. "Because you've been near several anomaly events recently."
"I live here."
"Yes," she agreed. "And that's exactly why we want to make sure you're safe."
There it was again.
That word.
Safe.
She placed her tablet on my table and turned the screen toward me. A soft blue interface pulsed. My name sat at the top.
Unregistered.
"Just a baseline scan," she said. "Voluntary. You'd barely feel it."
I looked at the tablet, then back at her. "And if I say no?"
Her smile didn't falter. "Then we'll continue monitoring the area."
The implication settled heavy in my chest.
After she left, the apartment felt too quiet.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the window and stared down at the street below. Cars passed. People moved. Life went on inside a system that suddenly felt much closer than it ever had before.
"You're thinking too loudly," a voice murmured behind me.
I gasped, spinning—
He stood near the doorway, half-shadowed, like the apartment had folded around him to make room. My heart slammed so hard it hurt.
"How—" I started.
"You didn't lock the window," he said calmly.
I hadn't realized I'd left it open.
My pulse pounded in my ears as I backed up a step. "You can't just—show up."
"I can," he replied. "I shouldn't."
The distinction mattered.
He didn't move closer, but the space between us felt charged, alive. My breath came shallow despite myself.
"They came again," I said. "The Authority."
His jaw tightened. The air shifted, gravity bending subtly like the room itself was bracing.
"I know."
"You knew?" I asked sharply. "You've been watching me?"
His gaze held mine, unflinching. "I've been making sure they don't see you."
That should have scared me.
It didn't.
"Why?" I whispered.
He took a single step forward.
Not close enough to touch.
Close enough that my skin warmed, that I could feel the steady presence of him like a hand hovering just short of contact.
"Because you don't belong in their system," he said quietly. "And they're running out of patience."
My throat went dry. "And you do?"
A flicker of something dark crossed his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or something sharper.
"They've already decided what I am."
Another step.
My back hit the counter.
He braced one hand against the surface beside me—not trapping me, not forcing me—just close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the controlled tension coiled beneath his calm.
My breath stuttered.
He noticed.
His voice dropped, intimate without being soft. "Tell me to leave."
I searched his face, my mind screaming that this was reckless, dangerous, insane.
My body leaned forward instead.
He didn't move.
Didn't close the distance.
The restraint made my knees weak.
"If I don't?" I asked.
His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes. "Then I stay," he said. "And they escalate."
The truth of it settled heavy between us.
I could feel his breath now, warm against my cheek. One inch closer and it would have brushed my throat.
I didn't pull away.
Neither did he.
This—this—was the line.
He held it with terrifying precision.
"I won't decide for you," he murmured. "I never will."
His hand pressed into the counter beside me, fingers flexing once like it took effort to keep them there.
"I just need you to understand," he continued, voice low, steady, devastatingly close, "once they mark you, they don't stop."
My heart hammered.
"I don't even know your name," I whispered.
A pause.
Then, softly—almost regretful—
"You will."
He stepped back.
The space rushed in, leaving me cold and breathless.
"I can't stay," he said. "Not tonight."
"Will I see you again?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
His mouth curved faintly. Not a smile.
"You already do."
And then the air folded.
He was gone.
I slid down against the counter, hands shaking, lungs struggling to catch up with reality.
Outside, the city hummed—watchful, patient, inevitable.
Inside me, something had shifted.
The Authority wanted to register me.
He wanted to protect me.
And for the first time, I realized those two things were not the same.
I stared at the door long after he left.
The question he'd planted wouldn't let go.
What happens if I choose wrong?