Eryan Vale woke before sunrise, as he often did now. The city was quiet, the streets empty except for the occasional hum of a lone car or distant dog barking. Most people were still trapped in dreams, unaware that the world had begun to shift, even slightly, around him.
He made his way to the small rooftop garden of his apartment, carrying a thermos of coffee. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the streets below. Every flicker of light, every movement, seemed to carry significance now. He had learned to notice the subtle anomalies—objects lingering longer than they should, figures appearing for only a heartbeat before vanishing.
Eryan's expression was calm, almost indifferent, but inside, a cold calculation churned. He didn't feel the awe most people might feel in the face of newfound power. Instead, he measured, observed, and planned. Curiosity alone would not keep him alive if the hidden forces he had glimpsed were aware of him.
He held his hand above a fallen leaf. It froze midair, hovering as if respecting an unspoken command. His lips curved slightly. Useful.
The library, his mundane workplace, felt suffocating today. The hum of fluorescent lights grated on him. He didn't interact much with coworkers, barely acknowledging greetings or small talk. Eryan had long since realized that ordinary social niceties were a distraction. To survive, to understand the currents beneath the world, he would need focus, not friendship.
During his lunch break, he wandered the city streets, his gaze drifting upward and downward, scanning, noticing. A man leaning against a lamppost held a newspaper oddly, reading without turning pages. A woman on a park bench seemed frozen for a moment too long as her phone rang. Subtle, almost imperceptible anomalies—but anomalies nonetheless.
He felt a faint pressure behind his eyes, a whisper at the edge of perception. Someone was watching him. Or more accurately, someone was aware of him.
The thought did not unsettle him as it might have before. Fear was a luxury he could not afford. Instead, he cataloged possibilities: surveillance, rivals, those who might seek to exploit him. A cold shiver ran down his spine—not from fear, but from anticipation. Knowledge was power, and power, in the wrong hands, could be deadly.
Back in the Haze that evening, he allowed himself more freedom. The gray mist swirled around him like a living thing, responding to subtle shifts in his attention. Eryan experimented carefully, not with the naive excitement of a child, but with the measured precision of a strategist. He froze falling objects, rewound their paths, and tested the limits of his perception, noting each anomaly and adjusting his understanding.
And then he saw it—a shape in the distance, barely more than a shadow, moving just beyond the edge of the mist. It wasn't a trick of the light; it paused and moved with intention, almost as if observing him, testing him.
A part of him wanted to confront it, to challenge this unknown observer. But he suppressed the impulse. Cold calculation told him that he did not yet know the rules of this world. Acting prematurely would be reckless.
Instead, he observed. Every subtle movement, every ripple in the Haze, was recorded in his mind. Patterns emerged: the shadow's presence was deliberate, not random. Someone—or something—was learning him even as he learned the Haze.
He allowed himself a thin smile, devoid of warmth. Then let them watch. Let them come.
The coldness wasn't cruelty—it was survival. He could not afford attachment, not yet. The world beyond the ordinary was already stirring, and he would need every advantage to navigate it.
Hours passed in near silence, broken only by the faint whisper of the Haze shifting around him. As he stepped back into his apartment, the city lights flickered, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a brush of eyes on him from the streets below.
He didn't flinch. He didn't panic. He simply prepared.
The ordinary world was already a lie. And Eryan Vale intended to uncover every secret, manipulate every thread, and survive the hidden currents that had begun to stir around him.
Let them come.
And somewhere in the darkness, someone—or something—took note of the cold figure standing in the Haze.