Arjun noticed it on the third night.
Not the whispers. Not the heat under his skin.
The way the city paused when he looked directly at it.
A cracked wall near his apartment shifted slightly, the graffiti lines bending like they were breathing. Streetlights dimmed as he passed beneath them, then flared back to life once he moved on. Even stray dogs stopped barking, eyes following him with a low, uneasy intelligence.
"You're losing it," Arjun muttered.
But the city didn't deny it.
At a red light, his reflection in a shop window blinked half a second late. When he raised his left hand, the burned symbol on his palm pulsed faintly, glowing beneath his skin like an ember trapped in flesh.
A pressure built in his chest—like the moment before a storm breaks.
Then the road ahead of him split.
Not physically. Not visibly to anyone else.
But Arjun felt it.
Two paths.
One safe. One wrong.
A drunk man stumbled into the street from the wrong side.
A truck ran the light.
Arjun moved without thinking.
He grabbed the man, pulled him back just as metal screamed past where he'd been standing. The drunk stared at him, confused, then ran.
The road cooled.
The pressure faded.
Arjun stood shaking, rain soaking through his jacket.
The city had warned him.
And that terrified him more than the fire.