The news came in the early evening.
Kent hadn't turned on the television for the broadcast. He only wanted some sound in the room—anything to push back the silence that had followed him since the crash.
The screen flickered to life.
Fire filled it.
Not the distant kind, not the controlled flames shown in aerial shots, but rolling black smoke and bright orange tongues of fire that clung to windows and spilled outward like something alive. The camera shook violently. Sirens cut in and out of the reporter's voice.
— Fire breaks out in the old district
— Cause remains under investigation
— Situation developing rapidly
Kent set his glass down on the table.
His fingers hovered in the air longer than necessary.
It felt familiar.
Not the image.
The weight.
That slow, tightening pressure in his chest, like something gathering momentum before it fell.
He turned the television off.
The room went quiet.
"There are professionals," he told himself.
"Firefighters. Engineers. Emergency systems."
This wasn't like before.
Last time had been an accident.
This time, it wasn't his responsibility.
He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face.
The mirror reflected someone unremarkable.
No burns.
No soot.
No sign of anything extraordinary.
Just a young man with tired eyes and a jaw clenched a little too tight.
"You don't owe anyone anything," he said softly.
It sounded reasonable.
It didn't sound true.
When Kent returned to the living room, the television was on again.
He didn't remember turning it back on.
The camera angle had changed. The fire looked worse now. Smoke poured out in thick waves, swallowing the upper floors. People stumbled out of the building, coughing, faces streaked with ash.
Then the camera tilted upward.
Kent's breathing stopped.
Not because of the people.
Because of the fire.
It wasn't spreading naturally.
It stopped—cleanly—at a certain height.
For just a second.
Too precise.
Too deliberate.
He grabbed the remote and dropped it onto the couch harder than necessary.
"Don't," he muttered.
But his mind had already gone somewhere else.
He remembered being younger.
Back when those thoughts still felt possible.
Watching movies. Reading comics. Imagining the question everyone pretends they wouldn't ask:
What if I were there?
He never imagined applause.
Never imagined statues or headlines.
Just the moment after—the knowledge that he hadn't turned away.
As he grew older, those thoughts were buried under routines and explanations. Hero fantasies were labeled childish. Unrealistic. Dangerous.
But now they were back.
Not loud.
Heavy.
Kent opened a drawer and pulled out an old scarf.
It wasn't meant to stop smoke.
Just to hide his face.
He stood at the door, hand resting on the handle, unmoving.
Logic spoke first.
You survived once.
You stayed hidden.
Nothing followed.
Walking away worked.
Another voice—quieter, deeper—answered back.
And if you walk away again?
Kent closed his eyes.
Then he opened the door.
The air smelled wrong long before he reached the site.
Acrid. Thick. Sharp enough to sting the eyes.
He raised the scarf and blended into the stream of people moving away from the building. No one paid him any attention. That, more than anything, kept him calm.
Beyond the barrier, flames climbed toward the third floor.
They shouldn't have looked like that.
Too contained.
Too steady.
As if waiting.
Someone shouted at him to stop.
Kent didn't answer.
He stepped over the line.
The moment he entered the smoke, the world dulled.
Sound didn't disappear—it receded. Sirens, shouting, commands all faded into something distant and muffled.
Then the feeling returned.
Not pain.
Weight.
As if the building itself was pressing downward, testing whether the ground beneath it would give.
Kent didn't think.
His arm rose on its own.
It wasn't a decision.
It was reflex.
The fire stalled.
Not extinguished.
Contained.
He felt it—not with his eyes, but somewhere deeper. A pressure held at bay, trembling against an invisible limit.
Time stretched thin.
He didn't know how long he stood there.
Only that when the force finally eased, his hands were shaking.
Not from exhaustion.
From fear.
Kent backed away.
He didn't wait to see the result.
Didn't wait for thanks or questions.
He slipped back into the crowd, scarf lowered, head down.
The scarf went into his pocket.
Like a secret he could still pretend belonged to no one.
Minutes later, in a room far from the smoke, a hidden camera feed was replayed.
The image was grainy, unstable—but clear enough.
A young man emerging from the haze.
Turning away.
Leaving.
Nathan Cole watched without speaking.
The analysis finished quietly.
"Facial match confirmed."
"Identity established."
Nathan exhaled.
Not relief.
Recognition.
"So that's how," he said.