Aiden changed cities again before sunrise.
Not far. Far enough.
He used a regional bus this time, paid cash, boarded late, and got off early. He didn't sit by windows. He didn't use headphones. He watched hands and feet instead of faces.
Nobody paid attention to him.
That didn't mean nobody noticed.
He reached a commuter town just after eight. Office parks, strip malls, apartment blocks built fast and cheap. People moved on schedules. Schedules created cover.
He found breakfast at a bakery that handled cash and didn't bother with names. He ate standing outside and threw the bag away three blocks later. He didn't check his phone.
The rule for the day was simple: stress the model without revealing capability.
That meant friction, not speed.
He spent the morning moving in loops that only made sense locally.
Library. Grocery store. Bus stop without boarding. Hardware store. Park restroom. Different directions. No repetition. He avoided places that required IDs or cards. He didn't linger anywhere long enough to be remembered.
At the library, he used a public terminal for nine minutes. Not enough to raise flags, long enough to check two things.
First: the construction site.
The official narrative hadn't changed publicly. Structural failure. Investigation ongoing. No suspects. No footage released beyond what already circulated.
Second: his former employer.
That page had changed.
The company had "temporarily suspended operations pending review." Photos showed fencing and security trucks. Private, not police.
That mattered.
Someone was controlling access.
He logged out and left without printing anything.
By noon, he felt it.
Not a physical sensation. A pattern.
He noticed people pausing half a second longer when he crossed paths. A delivery truck slowing slightly when he crossed the street. A woman on her phone stepping aside without realizing why.
Not fear.
Spacing.
He adjusted posture immediately. Slouched. Reduced stride. Let his shoulders roll forward. He became less noticeable.
It helped.
But it didn't erase the effect.
That meant the effect wasn't visual alone.
Good to know.
At one-thirty, he made his first deliberate mistake.
He stayed in a café for forty minutes.
He ordered once. Paid cash. Sat where he could see the entrance and the street. He didn't use his phone. He didn't read. He waited.
At minute twenty-five, a man entered and ordered nothing. He stood near the counter longer than necessary, pretending to scroll. At minute thirty-three, the man left.
Another person arrived five minutes later and sat two tables away. Different clothes. Same behavior.
That confirmed the change.
They weren't guessing routes anymore.
They were sampling environments.
Aiden finished his drink, stood, and left through the back exit.
No pursuit.
No confrontation.
They wanted behavior.
He spent the afternoon denying it to them.
He walked through a shopping center without buying anything. He entered a movie theater lobby and left before the ticket stand. He crossed the same street twice using different crossings.
He became boring.
By four, the sampling stopped.
That didn't mean they were gone. It meant they had enough.
He rented a room above a closed tailor shop that evening. The owner accepted cash and didn't ask for ID. The place was narrow and clean enough. Two exits. One window facing an alley.
Aiden tested the floor and walls quickly. Normal response.
He ate and sat on the bed, backpack at his feet.
He turned the phone on.
One bar. Stable.
Four unread messages.
He opened the newest first.
They're shifting to contact through intermediaries.
He didn't reply.
The next message:
Your employer has been approached.
That tightened his jaw.
The next:
So has your mother's workplace.
He stopped reading.
He powered the phone off and set it aside.
That wasn't a threat. It was information.
And it changed the equation.
He left the room twenty minutes later.
Not panicked. Focused.
He walked three blocks, crossed a main road, and entered a public parking garage. He used the stairs, not the elevator, and exited on the opposite side.
He needed to confirm how far they'd gone.
He found a payphone near a grocery store and dialed a number he hadn't used in weeks.
His mother answered on the second ring.
"Aiden?" Her voice sharpened immediately. "Where are you?"
"I'm fine," he said. "Did anyone contact you today?"
A pause. "Why?"
"Answer the question."
"Yes," she said. "Two men. They said they were following up on something at your old job. They were polite."
"Did you give them anything?" Aiden asked.
"No," she said quickly. "I told them I didn't know anything. Is something wrong?"
"Not yet," he said. "If anyone contacts you again, you tell them I left town weeks ago and you haven't heard from me. That's it."
"Aiden—"
"I'll call you," he said. "Not from this number."
He hung up.
That confirmed it.
They were widening.
He walked until night, then walked more.
He didn't sleep.
He needed distance and time to think.
By midnight, he reached the edge of town and crossed into a rural stretch. He followed a service road parallel to the highway and stopped beneath an overpass to eat.
He checked the phone once more.
One new message.
This is the part where they get sloppy.
He typed back.
You crossed a line.
The response came immediately.
They did. Not me.
Aiden considered that.
Then typed:
If they touch my family, this stops being quiet.
There was a delay.
Understood, came back. Which is why Brashear is arguing against containment.
Aiden stared at the screen.
He doesn't know me, he typed.
No, the reply came. He knows the math.
Aiden shut the phone off.
He crossed another county line before dawn.
This time, he didn't drift.
He aimed.
He picked a city with a hospital system tied to a university and multiple research institutes. Not to walk in. To stay nearby.
If contact was inevitable, it would come through institutions, not alleyways.
He wanted to see it coming.
He rented a room for three nights using cash and didn't leave the building until evening. He watched foot traffic. He watched cars. He noted patrol patterns.
Nothing obvious.
That meant coordination was still cautious.
Good.
That night, the news updated again.
Still no name.
But a new phrase appeared in multiple outlets.
"Dual-signature anomaly."
Gamma and something else.
They still didn't know what to call it.
Aiden closed the browser.
They were pressure-testing him now.
Not with force.
With proximity.
He sat on the bed and planned the next move.
Not an escape.
A counter-move.
If they wanted behavior, he'd give them something useless.
If they wanted contact, he'd choose the terms.
He checked the window and the exits again.
Then he packed and repacked until it was muscle memory.
Tomorrow, he'd let himself be seen.
Not captured.
Seen.
Because hiding forever wasn't survival.
It was delay.
And delay only worked until someone else decided the clock was theirs.