Chapter 8
They think glass and sensors make a cage.
They always do.
I stand three blocks away, unseen, watching the building breathe—energy cycling through it in neat, predictable rhythms. Surveillance nodes hum in patterns I memorized the moment they brought her inside.
They built this place for containment.
They didn't build it for me.
I keep my distance.
Not because I can't go closer.
Because I'm testing myself.
Elara is calm now. Her pulse stabilized after the spike—after me. They'll chalk it up to anxiety, note it in a report, move on.
Good.
Let them misunderstand.
The hero from earlier is inside. The one who leaned too close. I feel his presence like grit under my skin.
That's the problem with men like him.
They mistake proximity for power.
I shift gravity just enough to tilt a security camera off-axis.
No alarm.
As expected.
The system corrects itself, unaware that it was nudged—not malfunctioned.
I catalog every entrance, every fail-safe, every human variable.
This isn't an extraction.
Not yet.
This is a demonstration.
The city around me moves on, oblivious. Traffic lights cycle. A couple argues on a corner. Someone laughs too loudly from an open window.
Normalcy is fragile.
It relies on people like me choosing not to disrupt it.
My phone vibrates.
A secure channel lights up.
UNKNOWN: You're being reckless.
I don't respond.
Another message follows.
UNKNOWN: You're emotionally compromised.
That one earns a reply.
ME: And you're still alive.
ME: Consider that restraint.
I close the channel.
I feel her again—not consciously reaching, not searching—but present. The awareness between us is subtle, a thread I refuse to pull too hard.
She said my name.
That wasn't a mistake.
That was a choice.
And choices have consequences.
Inside the facility, tension rises.
The heroes sense it before they understand it. Systems lag by milliseconds. Doors hesitate before opening. Gravity readings fluctuate just outside acceptable variance.
They call it interference.
They don't call it a warning.
I step closer.
The building doesn't like it.
Concrete groans as pressure equalizes. Steel complains quietly. The bracelet on her wrist tightens once—testing, correcting.
I don't like that.
My jaw tightens.
Control.
Always control.
I fold space just enough to stand inside the facility's shadow, unseen but there. The air hums with restrained force, power coiled so tightly it vibrates.
Two guards stiffen.
"Did you feel that?" one asks.
"Probably a system spike," the other replies. "Nothing to worry about."
I almost smile.
The hero—the same one—paces outside her room.
Protective.
Possessive.
Stupid.
He presses his palm to the glass, peering in like she's an exhibit.
I step closer.
Gravity shifts.
He gasps, knees buckling as pressure clamps down—not crushing, just enough to remind him of his place.
I lean in, invisible, my voice threading through the distortion directly to his ear.
"You touch her again," I murmur, "and I stop being careful."
He goes pale.
"W-what—"
I release him.
He stumbles back, heart racing, eyes darting wildly.
No alarms.
No witnesses.
Just fear.
Good.
I pull away before instinct carries me further.
This was never about intimidation.
It's about boundaries.
They crossed one.
I corrected it.
From the rooftop across the street, I look back at her window. I don't need to see her to know she's there.
Alive.
Thinking.
Waiting.
This chapter isn't about rescue.
It's about inevitability.
They want to turn her into leverage.
They're about to learn—
I don't negotiate with threats.
And I don't share what's mine.
They move her at night.
Of course they do.
Heroes love the illusion of discretion—dark convoys, rerouted streets, permissions stamped by people who've never been hunted a day in their lives. They call it risk mitigation.
I call it predictable.
The decision ripples outward the moment it's made. Systems shift priorities. Personnel rotate. Power reroutes to mobile containment rather than stationary defense.
I feel it like a muscle tensing before a strike.
So this is how they plan to keep her.
Not hidden.
Portable.
My jaw tightens.
That bracelet on her wrist spikes, feeding telemetry into half a dozen agencies. Heart rate. Stress response. Location down to the centimeter.
They're not protecting her.
They're turning her into infrastructure.
I don't stop the convoy before it leaves.
That would be loud.
Messy.
Too final.
Instead, I watch from above as the transport rolls out—sleek, armored, humming with tech meant to neutralize people like me.
People like me.
Inside, she sits restrained by rules rather than chains. No cuffs. No sedation. Just proximity fields and polite distance.
She's calm.
Not because she's compliant.
Because she's listening.
Good.
I slide along the skyline, folding space between rooftops, keeping pace without ever touching the air above the vehicle. Drones buzz overhead, unaware that gravity is behaving slightly... strangely tonight.
I don't jam their signals.
I delay them.
Milliseconds at a time.
Just enough to create uncertainty.
Just enough to make people second-guess instruments they trust more than instincts.
The hero from earlier is riding shotgun inside the transport. I recognize his posture even through reinforced glass—alert, tense, trying to convince himself this is control.
He doesn't look at her.
That's another mistake.
The route changes unexpectedly.
They divert.
Interesting.
Someone's nervous.
I let them have that.
The convoy enters a lower district—older infrastructure, denser population, less clean data. Cameras overlap in inefficient ways. Buildings lean closer to the street.
Perfect.
I press two fingers together and nudge.
Not the vehicles.
The space between them.
The lead transport slows by half a second.
The second compensates.
The third doesn't.
Metal shrieks.
The convoy jolts to a halt—not a crash, not an attack. Just enough disruption to trigger protocols.
Alarms bloom like flowers.
This is where they expect me to strike.
I don't.
I wait.
Inside the transport, Elara's pulse spikes.
Not fear.
Recognition.
She knows this moment matters.
I feel it when her hand tightens into a fist, when her breathing slows deliberately, when her eyes lift—not to the heroes, but to the ceiling.
She's thinking of me.
That connection hums, thin but resilient.
I lean closer to the vehicle, unseen, my presence brushing the edges of her awareness like a held breath.
Now, I think.
Not a command.
An invitation.
The hero finally looks at her.
"Stay calm," he says. "This is just a precaution."
She meets his gaze.
"No," she says quietly. "It isn't."
He frowns. "Elara—"
"I didn't consent to this," she continues. Her voice is steady, but something in it has changed. Sharpened. "You said this was protection. You didn't say you were moving me."
He exhales, frustrated. "This isn't the time—"
"It is," she says.
I smile.
She lifts her wrist.
The bracelet hums, light pulsing as it reads her vitals.
"Take it off," she says.
"That's not possible."
"Then this ends badly," she replies.
The hero laughs once, incredulous. "You think you have leverage here?"
She tilts her head.
"I think you're standing between me and someone who doesn't like being told no."
The air shifts.
Subtle.
But everyone inside the transport feels it.
Gravity grows heavy.
Not crushing.
Expectant.
The hero stiffens.
"Blackfall," he mutters.
I don't correct him.
Not yet.
Outside, heroes fan out, weapons ready, eyes scanning rooftops that appear empty.
I step into visibility.
Not fully.
Just enough.
A silhouette bending the streetlights inward, shadow warping like it's being pulled toward me.
Panic ripples through the ranks.
"There," someone shouts.
I raise a hand.
The street bows.
Cars lift an inch off the ground and settle back down.
A promise.
Not a threat.
Inside the transport, Elara closes her eyes.
She exhales.
And then—she does something I didn't anticipate.
She pulls.
Not with power.
With will.
The bracelet tightens in response, overcorrecting.
That's when I intervene.
I slice the gravity around her wrist—not severing the device, not destroying it—but isolating it from the rest of the system.
The hum dies.
The light flickers.
The bracelet loosens and slides free into her palm.
Silence.
Every system in the convoy freezes, caught between inputs that no longer align.
I step forward.
Fully.
The world seems to lean toward me as I cross the distance, folding space until I'm standing beside the transport, palm resting lightly against reinforced glass.
I don't look at the heroes.
I look at her.
She opens her eyes.
Our gazes lock.
Relief floods her face so fast it almost knocks the breath from me.
"Kael," she says.
Not whispered.
Not hidden.
Spoken.
Something inside me cracks.
The hero spins toward her. "Don't say his—"
Too late.
I turn my head just enough that he sees my face.
Really sees it.
"I told you," I say calmly, my voice carrying without effort. "You don't get to decide for her."
Weapons raise.
I don't react.
Gravity does.
The street buckles.
Not collapsing—just bending, asphalt rippling like water under pressure. Heroes stumble, struggling to stay upright.
I step closer to the transport.
The glass softens under my touch.
"Elara," I say quietly, my voice threading through the chaos only to her. "I need you to listen."
She nods.
"Do you want to leave?" I ask.
No promises.
No coercion.
Choice.
She doesn't hesitate.
"Yes."
That single word hits harder than any weapon.
I smile.
I shatter the glass.
Not explosively.
It dissolves outward, fragments suspended in midair, glittering like stars before dropping harmlessly to the ground.
I extend my hand.
She takes it.
The moment our skin touches, the world reacts.
Pressure spikes. Alarms scream. Every sensor within three blocks flatlines.
I pull her close—not possessive, not violent—just enough that her shoulder presses into my chest.
Her breath stutters.
Mine does too.
"I've got you," I murmur, low enough that only she hears.
She grips my coat.
Hard.
"I know," she says.
Heroes shout.
Orders are given.
None of it matters.
I fold space around us, gravity coiling tight and obedient.
The city blurs.
And then—
We're gone.
When we land, it's quiet.
An unfinished building overlooking the river, wind cutting clean and cold. The city glows in the distance, unaware of what just shifted beneath it.
I release her slowly.
Not because I want to.
Because she deserves the choice.
She doesn't step back.
Instead, she looks up at me, eyes bright, heart racing, alive with something dangerous and exhilarating.
"They're going to come after you," she says.
I tilt my head. "They already were."
A breath passes between us.
Too close.
Too real.
She swallows.
"You didn't have to do that," she says. "For me."
I lean down, my voice dropping, intimate and unashamed.
"Yes," I say. "I did."
Her pulse jumps.
"Kael," she whispers again.
I smile.
And this time, there's no restraint in it at all.