He had to move. The image of the stone statue of Jax on the bus screen had burned itself into his mind, an unforgiving photograph of his crime. It was no longer a secret, a private moment of terror and rage. It was a spectacle, a news story, something the entire city would know about by morning. His past life had been a cage built from silence, but this new one was quickly becoming a cage of infamy. The hum of the city, once just background noise, now felt like a thousand accusing whispers.
He pushed himself up from the cold park bench, his legs stiff with exhaustion and fear. He had been a nobody, a ghost, and in a single moment of pure, raw instinct, he had become the most wanted person in the city. He couldn't go back. He couldn't endanger Mrs. Eleanor or the other kids. The weight of that decision was a cold, hard lump in his gut, a physical manifestation of his profound loneliness.
His wandering became more deliberate, less of a desperate flight and more of a hopeless search. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A place to hide? A way to undo what he had done? A sign that he wasn't a monster? The city was a maze of bright lights and bustling crowds, and he felt a growing sense of claustrophobia. The hum of people's Catalysts, a cacophony of vibrant energies, was overwhelming. Liquid metal skin, static-charged hair, soft glows of a healing Catalyst on a child's scraped knee—each was a reminder that he was different, a silent anomaly in a loud world.
He turned down a side street, seeking a brief respite from the relentless noise. The street was an alley of forgotten storefronts, their windows dark and dusty. Here, the hum of the Catalysts was muted, replaced by a deep, almost resonating quiet. It was a familiar feeling, a ghostly echo of his own silent power. A solitary sign, a rusted antique hanging from a crumbling brick building, swung gently in the breeze. The faded letters read: "The Broken Compass - Antiques & Curiosities."
The name struck him, a profound irony in his current state. He felt as though his own internal compass was shattered. He stopped, peering through the grimy glass. The shop was a labyrinth of shadows and strange objects, relics of a world that had moved on. An ancient grandfather clock stood frozen in time, its pendulum still. A dusty suit of armor seemed to stand guard in the corner. But it was the quiet that drew him in, a profound and absolute silence that felt like home. His own Catalyst, that dormant, stony core, felt a faint, magnetic pull toward this place. He raised his hand and tentatively pushed on the door. It opened with a soft, mournful chime.
An old man sat behind a cluttered wooden counter, his hands busy polishing a small, intricate stone figurine. His Catalyst was a low, steady thrum, like the quiet persistence of a river. It wasn't loud or flashy, but it had a deep, earthy resonance that was unlike anything Anakin had ever felt before. The old man looked up, his eyes, the color of wet slate, meeting Anakin's with an unnerving calmness.
"You're an odd one," the man said, his voice raspy and kind. "A lot of noise out there. You carry such a stillness."
Anakin flinched, his heart hammering against his ribs. The man hadn't even looked at him with his Catalyst, yet he had seen him, truly seen him.
"I… I'm just looking," Anakin stammered, his body tensing, ready to bolt.
"No, you're not," the man said, his voice gentle, devoid of judgment. "You're lost. And you're dangerous. I can feel the weight of it on you, son. The deep chill of a silent power." He gestured to the stool in front of the counter. "Sit. You look like you're about to fall over."
Anakin hesitated. The exhaustion was a far greater force than his fear. He slid onto the stool, the wood groaning under his weight. He looked at the flawless stone sculpture on the counter. It was a bird in flight, its feathers so perfectly rendered he could almost feel the motion. He felt a deep, instinctive connection to the object, as if it was a part of him.
"My name is Elias," the old man said, a faint smile on his lips. "And I know a thing or two about Catalysts that don't fit in. That one of yours… it's ancient. It's beautiful. And it's screaming for a guide. I won't turn you in. Not if you help me out. I could use a hand around here. And you could use a place to lay your head."
He didn't ask what Anakin had done. He just looked at him with an understanding that was both terrifying and comforting. He knew the feeling of having a power that was a burden. He knew the fear.
Anakin looked around the shop, at the forgotten relics and the objects that had been left behind. He looked at the kind eyes of the old man. The danger was still out there. The Wardens were still looking for him. But for the first time since his world had turned to stone, he wasn't running. He was being offered a choice, a broken compass to guide him.
"Okay," Anakin whispered, the word a small, fragile sound in the immense silence of the shop. "Okay."