Aiden didn't leave the storage unit for two days.
Not because he was hiding in fear, but because movement had become data. Every step, every purchase, every change in location narrowed someone's model of him. Staying still—temporarily—introduced noise.
The unit was concrete, dry, and forgettable. He'd chosen it because it didn't pretend to be comfortable. No bed. No windows. No reason for anyone to check on him.
He slept in short blocks and ate cold food. He rationed water. He kept the door shut except to use the shared restroom down the row, and even then he waited until the place was quiet.
On the second morning, he tested the space.
Not strength. Not limits. Practical checks.
He leaned his shoulder into the wall. No reaction.
He sat, stood, shifted weight. Normal sounds.
He lifted the backpack, set it down. Nothing bent.
That confirmed a pattern he'd suspected: slow force was manageable. Sudden force wasn't.
Useful.
He made notes mentally. No writing. No digital trail.
On the third morning, he turned his phone on.
One bar. Stable enough.
He didn't open messages. He opened news.
The construction site story had cooled publicly. No new footage. No dramatic updates. That meant investigators were done talking to reporters and had started talking to each other.
The language confirmed it.
"Technical review ongoing."
"External consultation."
"Non-standard energy interaction."
No speculation. No panic.
That was worse.
He scrolled further.
A small mention, buried deep in an article about federal research partnerships:
"…with input expected from Dr. Adam Brashear, among others."
Aiden read the name twice.
It still didn't mean anything to him.
But it was clearly important to someone.
He closed the page and shut the phone off again.
He left the unit that afternoon.
Staying longer would create its own pattern. Storage facilities had cameras, even if the staff didn't care much. Two days was forgettable. Three started to be a stay.
He packed everything and moved out during a lull when trucks were coming and going. He blended into activity and walked away without looking back.
His next stop was deliberate.
A public hospital.
Not the emergency room. Too many cameras, too much logging. He used the outpatient wing and walked in like he belonged there.
He didn't talk to anyone. He didn't sit down.
He walked the halls.
Hospitals were useful for three reasons: noise, density, and excuses. People expected strangers to be there. Nobody asked why you were walking slowly or standing still.
He watched.
He noted how close people stood without reacting. How equipment didn't distort or flicker. How floors held firm.
That confirmed another thing: the effect radius was smaller than he'd feared. It wasn't passive. It wasn't constant.
It responded to spikes.
Good.
He left after twenty minutes and didn't return.
By evening, he had crossed into a residential area with older apartment blocks and minimal security. He rented a room from a man who asked no questions and accepted cash. The place smelled like cleaning solvent and old furniture.
It was fine.
He locked the door and sat on the floor with his back against the bed.
He checked his phone again.
Two unread messages.
Both from the same number.
He opened the first.
They're trying to model you as a gamma variant. It doesn't fit.
He didn't reply.
He opened the second.
Brashear won't accept bad data. That buys you time.
That annoyed him.
Not because it was threatening, but because it assumed cooperation. Like he should be grateful someone was watching the process for him.
He typed a response.
Stop narrating.
The reply came an hour later.
Fair.
He shut the phone off.
The next morning, he made a mistake.
Not a big one. Just careless.
He bought breakfast at the same place twice.
Same cashier. Same time. Same order.
He realized it as he stepped outside.
"Idiot," he muttered.
He didn't go back. He walked instead of taking the bus he'd planned on. He changed direction twice, crossed a park, and used a pedestrian bridge instead of the main road.
It was probably nothing.
But "probably" wasn't good enough anymore.
Midday brought confirmation.
He noticed a man across the street who didn't belong. Too neat. Too attentive without looking attentive. The man adjusted his position twice to keep Aiden in sight while pretending to check his phone.
Aiden didn't confront him.
He crossed the street, entered a hardware store, and walked straight through to the exit on the other side. He waited ten seconds, then joined foot traffic heading toward a busier intersection.
He didn't look back.
The man didn't follow.
That meant surveillance, not capture.
Yet.
Aiden changed cities again that night.
Short hop. Cash ticket. Off-peak hours.
He chose a place with a university nearby and a transient population. People came and went. Strangers didn't stand out.
He rented another room. Different style. Different owner.
He slept better than he had in days.
When he woke, the phone buzzed.
This time, he answered.
"Say it," he said quietly.
The voice on the other end was male. Older. Calm.
"You're adapting faster than expected."
"Stop tracking me," Aiden said.
"I'm not tracking you. I'm tracking the investigation. You just happen to be the variable that keeps breaking their assumptions."
Aiden stayed silent.
"Brashear's involved now," the man continued. "That changes how this ends."
Aiden sat up. "You said that already. Who is he?"
There was a pause.
"A physicist," the man said. "And one of the few people who understands antimatter containment at scale."
That word landed harder than it should have.
"Why would antimatter be involved?" Aiden asked.
"Because gamma alone doesn't erase mass cleanly," the man replied. "And your incident did."
Aiden didn't respond immediately.
"That's not something you should say on a phone," he said finally.
Another pause. Longer.
"Agreed," the man said. "Which is why I won't say more."
"Good," Aiden replied. "Then we're done."
"Not quite," the man said. "They're going to try to contact you indirectly. Through family. Through work. Through patterns you think are closed."
Aiden's jaw tightened.
"That would be a mistake," he said.
"Yes," the man agreed. "It would."
The line went dead.
Aiden sat there for a full minute before moving.
That was the first direct mention of his family.
Which meant someone had started pulling background.
That narrowed the window significantly.
He stood and packed again.
No hesitation this time.
He left within the hour.
By late afternoon, he was on the move again, following the same rules he'd refined: no repeats, no comfort, no patterns that could be graphed cleanly.
He checked the news once more before powering the phone off completely.
A new line had appeared in one article.
"Subject demonstrates high cognitive control."
Aiden snorted quietly.
"Subject," he muttered.
They still didn't know who he was.
But they were getting closer to what he could do.
That was fine.
What he couldn't allow was them deciding why.
He didn't want a narrative built around him.
He wanted space.
As evening settled in, he crossed another county line and didn't look back.
He wasn't running out of fear.
He was managing variables.
And right now, the biggest variable wasn't his power.
It was how fast people learned to stop underestimating him.