Anakin woke to the sound of Elias's Catalyst, a steady, rhythmic hum that was more felt than heard. It was a stark contrast to the buzzing energy of the city, a sound that resonated with the deep, quiet pull of his own power. He lay on the cot, the worn quilt scratchy against his skin, and pulled the leather pouch from his pocket. The stones inside were cool and smooth, but they held a strange, undeniable weight, as if they were heavier than they had any right to be.
The quiet of the workshop offered a rare space for his thoughts to unravel, for the frantic panic of the last twenty-four hours to give way to something more profound: reflection. He thought about his previous life, a distant memory that felt both real and like a forgotten dream. He remembered a life of absolute stillness, of being an object rather than a person. He saw himself, a child's statue in a courtyard, seasons changing around him, rain and sun wearing away at his stone skin. He saw a world of muted colors, of soundless days, of being an observer to a life he couldn't participate in. It was a life of profound loneliness, of a silence that was a prison. He had no name in that life, no voice, no will. He was just a thing, an enduring monument to someone else's creativity, a hollow shell. That silence had been suffocating.
This new life had been a chance for something different. A chance to be loud, to be a part of the vibrant, chaotic world of Catalysts. He had tried to be a ghost, a nobody, and for a while, it had worked. He had his quiet room, Mrs. Eleanor's kind face, the easy, predictable rhythm of his days. But the old fears were a constant undertow, a cold claw in his throat every time he heard a loud noise or saw a sudden, violent movement. He was a paradox: a boy who craved a life of stillness but was terrified of being a statue again. The very quiet he sought was a constant reminder of the prison he had escaped.
And now, he was neither. He was a fugitive. The fear of being a statue had been replaced by the horrifying knowledge that he could make others into statues. His power, the thing he had tried so hard to hide, was a weapon he couldn't control, a curse that had turned a living boy into a stone monument. The guilt of that act was a heavy, suffocating blanket, a weight that was far more burdensome than any physical pain he had ever known. He wondered if Jax's family had been notified, if they were grieving, if they hated him for what he had done. The thought was a physical blow, a fresh wound that hurt more than any punch Jax could have thrown.
He thought of the future. The simple dream of a quiet life was gone. He couldn't go back, not to the foster home, not to the familiar streets of Silverwood. He was a permanent outsider, an anomaly. But Elias had offered a different path. He had called his power a compass, not a curse. He had said he could teach him how to use it, to control it. The thought was terrifying, but it was also the first glimpse of hope he had felt. The hope that he could stop running. The hope that he could learn to live with this power, to turn the silence that was his curse into a tool, a compass.
He stood up from the cot and walked to the workbench. Elias was gone, but he had left a note on the workbench, a single line written in a precise, neat hand. The stones will guide you. Find the old warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. Look for the sign of the hummingbird.
Anakin picked up the pouch. The stones inside hummed with a faint, almost imperceptible energy. He had a path now, a destination. He was a fugitive, but he was also a messenger. He was still terrified, still a walking time bomb. But for the first time, he felt a flicker of purpose. His past was a cage of silence, his present a prison of fear. But his future... his future was a journey he was finally choosing to take. A journey into the noise, with the hope that he could learn to control the silence within him.