Kenton sat alone in the corner booth of FRANK's, the vinyl seat stiff against his back. Outside, neon letters flickered in muted colors, painting the diner in broken patterns that seemed just slightly off. He stirred his coffee lazily, spoon scraping against the cup like a metronome.
He had been running tests again, small, innocuous shifts in perception: the angle of a street sign outside the window, a chalkboard menu he'd glanced at twice, a shift in the clock above the kitchen pass-through. Time stretched differently for anyone watching him, subtle enough that most would chalk it up to fatigue or imagination.
A phone beside him buzzed. Kenton picked it up, tapping the screen idly. By the time he hung up, the person on the line believed they had left a message for someone else entirely. Kenton allowed himself a small, private chuckle at the displacement.
Pain flickered suddenly in his skull—sharp, corrosive, and unrelenting. His teeth clenched, and he pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. The sensation weighed like a tidal wave on his consciousness. He staggered slightly, muttering under his breath, trying to swallow the gnawing ache. It always came after exertion, after he reached beyond his limits, reminding him that even the superior could break.
A bell jingled near the entrance. Kenton barely raised his gaze, expecting a young couple or a hurried delivery. Instead, a solitary figure entered: middle-aged, unassuming, wearing glasses that reflected the overhead lights, hands folded loosely in front. The person moved with a measured gait, hesitant yet purposeful.
"Excuse me," the stranger said, voice calm, inviting. "Do you work with Sector Delta?"
Kenton's brow rose slightly, and he set his spoon down, eyes narrowing. "I do." His tone was neutral, almost cold.
The stranger hesitated, then smiled faintly. "I thought so. I... I'm having a problem. An anomaly. Been happening for weeks. I can't... explain it well."
Kenton leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Anomaly?"
"Yes," the stranger said softly, voice steady but laced with unease. "It... changes. Turns into what I fear. But—here's the odd part—other people see something different entirely. Their fears, not mine. I've tried to explain it, but no one understands. It... it seems alive, yet invisible to them."
Kenton's lips quirked into a faint smirk. He didn't speak immediately, simply observing the way the person wrung their hands, the careful tilt of their head, the unflinching honesty in their eyes. There was no pretense here. No hiding behind the world.
"I see," he said finally. Voice soft, measured, concealing the undercurrent of amusement. "Do you... interact with it directly?"
"Not much," the stranger admitted. "I try to avoid it, but... sometimes it shows up anyway. I can't tell if it's testing me, or—" They paused, searching for words. "—or if it even cares who I am."
Kenton's fingers tapped on the table. Each tap was deliberate, almost musical. "Interesting." The word carried weight, though it revealed nothing. "And this anomaly... it only affects you in the way you described?"
The stranger nodded. "Yes. But I wonder... does it do the same for everyone? Or is it me?"
Kenton studied them for a long moment. Their earnestness was unsettling in its simplicity. Most civilians he encountered never looked at him as a person—they either feared or ignored him. But this one... the quiet, probing patience, the willingness to engage without hesitation, threw him off balance in the smallest, most significant way.
"I understand," he said finally, voice low. "I can't offer more than that right now. But you've done the right thing by describing it."
"Thank you," the stranger said softly, smiling again. "I... I wasn't sure anyone would understand. Sometimes it feels like I'm... mute, in a way. Not physically, but... I can't make them see."
Kenton's eyes flicked to the reflection in the diner window. Shadows seemed to bend just slightly around the edges, imperceptible unless one looked carefully. He wondered, briefly, if they noticed.
"Most people... don't," he said. "You're not alone in that."
The stranger nodded, relieved. "I'll... I'll do my best. I just... hope someone like you can help, if it gets worse."
Kenton leaned back, expression unreadable. "Perhaps."
They lingered a moment, the weight of words hanging in the stale diner air. Then the stranger turned, leaving Kenton alone again. The bell above the door chimed once more.
Pain gnawed at him again—not physical, not entirely—but the pressure of bending one mind, the knowledge of what that could do, lingered. He let his hand fall to the table, taking the empty coffee cup in his fingers. The world outside the window continued, oblivious, slightly altered.
A small, private thought flickered behind his eyes: he had bent one mind today, yes, but only one. And the effort had been a reminder—every action carried weight. Even the invisible, the subtle, the unnoticed. Every nudge, every shift, rippled farther than he could see.
He exhaled slowly. Sector Delta, anomalies, civilians, the stranger—none of it mattered, not yet. But each interaction, each small change... it shaped something he could barely control. Something vast. Something dangerously alive.
Kenton tapped his fingers against the empty cup again, watching as the reflection of neon warped slightly on the table, a silent reminder of the delicate, terrifying power he wielded—and the fragility beneath it.
The stranger lingered near the counter, hesitating as though uncertain whether to leave or stay. Kenton's eyes followed, sharp, calculating, yet uncharacteristically unassertive this time. He wasn't used to people... people who didn't flinch.
"You... you said you feel mute," Kenton said finally, voice low, hesitant. "I—I... I think I understand." His hands fidgeted with the edge of the table, brushing against the cold wood like he wasn't sure what to do with them. "Not in the obvious way, but... you mean... not being seen? Not understood?"
The stranger's lips curved faintly. "Exactly. Most people look at me and... they see what they expect. They don't... they don't see me."
Kenton's throat tightened. "Yeah... same. Sort of. It's... hard to explain." He shuffled his papers slightly, tugging at the corner, as if fiddling could buy him time to think. "I—uh—I'm not good with... social. Or... conversation. Usually, I—uh—I avoid it."
The stranger smiled warmly, gently, as if noticing the hesitation and choosing not to mock it. "That's fine. We can... we can just talk. I—uh—I don't need perfection. Just... honesty. I think you're honest, at least."
Kenton's chest tightened again, a subtle panic twisting in his gut. Honest. That word carried weight he wasn't used to. He nodded, slightly too fast. "Yeah. I—try to be. I... mean, I have to, or... it doesn't work. Things... people... don't... line up otherwise."
They glanced at each other, and for a moment, the diner's neon glow felt less alien, less warped, less like an experiment. It was just two people talking, however awkwardly.
"Do... anomalies... scare you?" the stranger asked suddenly, tilting their head. "Or... maybe not you... but in general? You... work with them, right?"
Kenton blinked. The question felt pointed, and yet gentle. "Uh... yes. Scare... maybe. Depends. They're unpredictable. And... you have to... anticipate. Even small things... can..." His voice trailed off, fingers drumming nervously against the table. He swallowed, then tried again. "It's... it's not fear like... like a jump-scare. More... careful. Constant awareness. Always."
The stranger nodded, slowly. "I understand. I think sometimes fear isn't the point. It's.. knowing you can survive it."
Kenton's hand twitched. He laughed—awkward, breathy, and uncomfortable. "Yeah... survive. That's... that's one way to put it. I—uh—I'm... not... good at... making it sound... normal."
"You don't have to," the stranger said. "I... I like it. Real is better than... pretending." Their gaze softened, encouraging him without words.
The diner seemed quieter. The muffled hum of the fridge, the clink of silverware from another booth, the faint squeak of the door—Kenton noticed all of it, but none of it mattered as much as this tiny, fragile connection.
"I... you... uh..." Kenton stumbled over the words, finally giving up and just gesturing vaguely at the table between them. "I... like... talking... like this. Rare. Makes... less... heavy." His jaw tightened. "Sorry. That... didn't... make sense."
The stranger smiled again, patient and kind. "It does. It... really does. Less heavy is good. I... I think we both need that, huh?"
Kenton froze slightly, then nodded, almost imperceptibly. He wasn't used to admitting need. He certainly wasn't used to someone else seeing it without judgment.
"Uh... thank you," he said finally. "For... for being... normal. Sort of. You... help."
"Glad to," the stranger said softly. "I... I think we can figure things out. Together... maybe."
Kenton's fingers flexed on the table. He looked down, clearing his throat. "Together... yeah. Maybe."
They sat in silence for a few moments, not awkwardly, not forcibly—just existing, a strange equilibrium forming. Kenton, painfully aware of every shift in his chest and skull, felt a small relief, almost alien to him. He wasn't used to trust, and yet here it was, fragile and human, like a small ember in a storm.
The stranger glanced at the door, then back. "I—uh—should go. But... thank you. For listening."
Kenton nodded, fidgeting again. "Yeah... of course. Anytime... I guess."
They left, and Kenton remained, staring at the empty doorway. Pain still pulsed faintly behind his eyes, a reminder of the one mind he had bent earlier, the weight of his own powers. But now... now there was a trace of something lighter, something fleeting—proof that even in isolation, a connection could be found, however small, however awkward, however human.