The siren wailed in the distance, a sound like a physical blow to Anakin's gut. It cut through the stunned silence and shattered the illusion of a normal afternoon. The siren was a hunting call, and he was the prey. He didn't know how the Catalyst Wardens detected such things, but he knew they had. He had unleashed a force that shouldn't exist, a silent, all-consuming stasis field that had turned a living, screaming bully into a perfect, detailed likeness of his last moment of rage. Jax's wide, stone eyes seemed to follow him, a permanent record of his mistake.
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the white-hot rage that had fueled his Catalyst. He had to run. He stumbled backward, his eyes fixed on the statue of Jax, and then turned and bolted. He didn't look back, couldn't. He didn't know where he was going. He only knew that the easy, quiet life he had so desperately clung to was gone. Every footfall was a frantic drumbeat for a new, terrifying chase. He was a fugitive, and his first crime was carving a statue from a living boy.
He ran until his lungs burned and his legs ached, the once-familiar streets of his neighborhood now a maze of potential traps. Every car that slowed felt like a threat. Every person he passed was a potential Warden, an agent of the authority he knew so little about, but feared with every fiber of his being. He cut through a neighbor's yard, trampling a bed of prize-winning roses that crunched under his feet like shattered glass. He vaulted over a low fence and scrambled through a gap in a hedge, the thorns scratching at his skin but his mind barely registering the pain.
The manic energy of his flight gave way to a desperate, breathless exhaustion. He ducked behind a stack of overflowing dumpsters in a grimy alley behind a row of storefronts, the sour smell of rotting garbage a grotesque comfort. At least here, no one would notice him. He was back to being a ghost.
Sliding down the grimy brick wall, he pulled his knees to his chest, burying his head in his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of Jax's stone face. The quiet he had craved was finally here, but it was a hollow, dreadful quiet. He was safe, for now. He reached out to steady himself against the wall, his hand still shaking, and brushed against a discarded aluminum soda can. He didn't even feel a thrumming, no low pulse of power. His fingers simply made contact.
The can didn't crumple.
Anakin's eyes snapped open. The can, a perfectly ordinary object a moment ago, was now a solid, unyielding cylinder of grey stone, sitting impossibly among the trash. The faded logo of the soda company was no longer printed on metal, but sculpted into rock. A cold wave of realization washed over his panic. This wasn't a one-time event triggered by stress. This was an innate part of him, a constant, active power that he couldn't control. He was a danger. A living liability. He was no longer invisible. He had escaped the scene, but he couldn't escape himself.
He scrambled to his feet, abandoning his hiding spot. The alley felt like a tomb. He needed to get out of Silverwood, to get lost in the noise and chaos of the city proper. He sprinted toward the main boulevard, ducking into the flow of evening foot traffic. The familiar din of people's Catalysts, once a reassuring buzz in the background, now felt like a buzzing alarm, a thousand different frequencies he was desperately trying to tune out. The liquid metal skin, the static-charged hair, the soft glow of a healing Catalyst on a child's scraped knee—each was a reminder of a world that had a clear place for power. And his had no place at all.
He saw the bus stop ahead and shoved his way through a small crowd, desperate to get on board. As the doors hissed open, he saw him—a man in a crisp, dark suit standing at the back of the bus, holding a small, silver device. The device was humming, a faint, rhythmic pulse of energy, and the man's eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the passengers. He was a Warden, a seeker. He was looking for a new, unregistered signature. He was looking for Anakin.
Anakin's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt the familiar, heavy pull of his Catalyst, a deep ache spreading through his bones as his skin felt solid, ready to turn to stone in a desperate, last-ditch defense. The power was a prison, a shield that would betray his presence the moment it engaged. He had to be smarter. He had to think.
He slipped past the man, his head down, and made his way to the back door. As the bus lumbered to a stop at the next station, he didn't hesitate. He pushed the bar and flung himself out into the busy city street, disappearing into a sea of strangers. The bus pulled away, and the Warden's gaze was lost in the crowd. Anakin was alone now, truly alone, in a world that was suddenly loud again. He had escaped, but his power was a constant, ticking time bomb, and he had no idea how to stop it from going off.