The car kept moving forward.
At some point, time inside the cabin stopped behaving the way it normally did. There was no clear moment when minutes turned into something heavier. No sharp break, no marker. The navigation interface glowed steadily on the console, its progress bar inching forward with mechanical patience, yet it gave me the unsettling impression that we had already been on this road for far too long.
Too long for a simple transfer.
Too long for something that was supposed to be routine.
Outside the window, the city changed—but not in the way cities usually do. It didn't shift abruptly from one district to another, nor did it decay or grow more vibrant. Instead, it converged. Buildings gradually aligned in height, spacing, and material, as if an invisible editor had gone through the skyline with obsessive precision. Concrete gave way to cleaner composites. Glass surfaces reflected light at similar angles. Even the gaps between structures felt measured, deliberate.
Nothing stood out.
And that, somehow, was the most unsettling part.
It felt less like entering a new place and more like slipping into a controlled environment—one that had been revised, adjusted, and approved countless times before being deemed acceptable.
That was when I realized something quietly, without panic.
This area wasn't meant to be passed through.
"What are you thinking about?" Danny asked.
His voice came without warning, calm and unraised, but it cut cleanly through the hum of the engine. I blinked, momentarily disoriented, only then becoming aware that I had been staring out the window without really seeing anything.
"Nothing," I said automatically.
The word came out too fast, polished by habit. The kind of answer you give when you don't want to explain a thought that hasn't fully formed yet.
Danny didn't look at me. He didn't ask again. He simply nodded once, lightly, as if acknowledging a minor procedural detail rather than a human response. His hands remained steady on the steering wheel, fingers relaxed but positioned with intention. Even though the car was operating under autonomous guidance, his posture never shifted into something casual.
He was ready.
Always ready.
That readiness made my skin crawl.
It reminded me of guards who insisted they were "just standing by," even when nothing appeared to be happening. Of people who claimed they weren't watching you—yet somehow never looked away.
It felt less like being driven somewhere and more like being delivered.
I adjusted my posture, straightening my back, uncrossing and recrossing my legs, trying to appear at ease. The movement was more for myself than for him.
"So…" I said, breaking the silence. "Free Town wasn't originally designed for ordinary people, was it?"
The question lingered in the air longer than I expected.
Danny didn't answer right away.
The delay wasn't dramatic. It was measured, almost professional, as though he were deciding which version of the truth fit the situation best.
"You could say that," he replied.
The words were short. Clean. Unadorned. Yet they carried more weight than his earlier explanations, heavier precisely because he hadn't tried to soften them.
"The original planning framework targeted ability users," he continued. "Residential layout. Traffic flow. Administrative authority. Conflict resolution mechanisms. Every major parameter revolves around them."
The phrasing was precise, technical. Not ideological. Not defensive.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"Then what about ordinary people?" I asked before I could stop myself.
This time, Danny didn't answer at all.
The car descended into a sunken roadway. Walls rose on both sides, tall and smooth, cutting off the skyline in a single, seamless motion. The light dimmed as if someone had turned down a dial. Sound changed too—muted, compressed, stripped of echo.
It felt like passing through a throat.
"Ordinary people aren't excluded," Danny said at last. "They're reassigned."
The word hit harder than I expected.
"Reassigned how?" I asked.
"In Free Town," he said evenly, "ability users are components of order. Ordinary people are subjects of it."
For a moment, my mind went completely blank.
I had heard similar ideas before. In articles. In overheard conversations. In statements delivered by people who wanted to provoke outrage or justify cruelty. But Danny wasn't doing any of that. There was no hint of superiority in his voice, no contempt, no enthusiasm.
He was stating a system requirement.
Like explaining gravity. Or traffic laws.
The car emerged back into daylight. The walls fell away, replaced by wide lanes and cleanly segmented zones. Symbols appeared along the roadside—abstract markings, geometric indicators, color-coded bands embedded directly into surfaces. They weren't advertisements, and they weren't directions meant for visitors.
They were functional.
And I knew, without understanding them, that they were not meant for me.
"You said earlier that the lord's ability can alter order," I said quietly. "Is he still using it?"
Danny's finger tapped once against the steering wheel.
"Not continuously."
"An ability isn't a switch," he added. "It's an influence."
He paused, choosing an analogy.
"Like correcting a crooked cornerstone. Once it's set straight, everything built on top naturally follows the proper alignment."
I pictured it. A foundation shifted just enough to change everything above it. Walls rising true not because they chose to, but because they had no other option.
A chill crawled up my spine.
What if the cornerstone had been placed wrong from the beginning?
The thought surfaced instinctively—and I crushed it just as fast.
This wasn't a place where opinions mattered.
And I wasn't someone whose judgment carried weight.
"So that's why Free Town feels so… stable," I said.
Danny nodded once.
"Stability is its primary asset."
The car began to slow. The road widened subtly, almost imperceptibly, and the surface beneath the tires changed. The sound grew deeper, heavier, as though the ground itself had been reinforced.
Ahead, clusters of buildings rose into view. Their outlines were sharp but restrained, free of ornamentation. No towering monuments. No decorative excess. Everything looked intentional, controlled, finished.
"You'll be staying here for a while," Danny said.
My heart lurched.
"How long?" I asked.
"Undetermined."
I swallowed. "Based on what?"
"Assignment."
My fingers curled into the fabric of my sleeve before I realized it. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"I know," he said immediately. "So this isn't detention."
The words were technically reassuring.
They did nothing to ease the pressure in my chest.
The car came to a stop—not before a gate, not beneath surveillance towers, but in an open area that felt deliberately empty. Roads branched outward in clean arcs. Sightlines stretched far without obstruction, like a plaza designed to make movement visible rather than restricted.
I looked out through the window.
The quiet here wasn't lifeless. It was regulated. Sound existed, but only within approved limits. Nothing echoed. Nothing intruded.
"Get out," Danny said.
I inhaled slowly and pushed the door open.
The air was surprisingly fresh. Cooler than the city I'd left behind. Clearer. It carried none of the usual metallic haze, none of the exhaustion that clung to crowded streets.
My feet met the ground, solid and even.
And yet, the sensation was unmistakable.
I was standing on someone else's territory.
Danny stepped out beside me. He didn't crowd my space, didn't loom or signal authority through posture. But his position—slightly offset, close enough to intervene—was enough. Presence without aggression. Control without force.
"You said Free Town was prepared for ability users," I said. "Then what am I?"
Danny looked at me.
The glance was brief. Professional. Evaluative.
"You were brought here," he said. "That alone makes you different."
The meaning settled slowly.
Being brought in wasn't the same as arriving.
And it definitely wasn't the same as choosing.
The buildings in the distance stood silent, perfectly still. They didn't feel like they were waiting for me—or for anyone. They existed independently, self-sufficient, indifferent.
That was when it truly sank in.
There were no visible borders here. No walls to signal confinement.
But boundaries were everywhere.
I stood there, the open space stretching out before me, and felt a quiet certainty take hold.
From the moment I stepped into Free Town, my freedom of movement might appear vast.
But the number of things I could truly decide for myself—
Those had already been reduced.
And this was only the beginning.