It started with a flicker.
Just a blink—on the edge of his vision, as Elias passed by the central fountain in the courtyard.
No one else seemed to notice. Students walked by, talking, laughing, chewing lunch. The sun filtered through the high trees. The marble statue in the center cast its usual long shadow.
But the water had stopped moving.
Just for a second.
Then it caught up, like a video buffering back into sync.
Elias stopped walking.
He looked at the surface of the fountain.
His reflection blinked.
He hadn't.
He took a step back.
"Reality feedback distortion: active."
"Containment ratio: 18% and falling."
He turned away, pulling up his collar.
His sleeve brushed the inside of his wrist.
The mark burned.
The hallway to his next class stretched too long.
Everything felt slightly off-center. The hum of the lights overhead buzzed at the wrong pitch. The floor tiles didn't seem even. Footsteps echoed strangely, like he was walking through someone else's memory.
He clenched his teeth.
Just get to class.
Just sit down.
Just act normal.
Inside the classroom, he dropped into his chair and tried to breathe.
Two students chatted beside him. Their words came through muffled. Not because they were whispering—but because something inside his head was louder.
"You're unraveling."
"Let it out."
"Let us align."
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the chalkboard at the front of the room had a long diagonal crack in it.
He didn't remember seeing that before.
The teacher arrived. Took attendance. Started speaking.
Elias didn't hear any of it.
His vision swam. Not from exhaustion—but from pressure. The feeling of something pressing outward from inside his chest. Like heat that had nowhere to go.
His right arm pulsed again.
This time, the pain was real.
And then—
Something leaked.
It wasn't fire.
Not exactly.
But the air above his shoulder shimmered like heatwaves. A ripple spread out across the wall behind him—soft, nearly invisible.
The lights overhead flickered.
The student sitting behind him gasped.
"What the hell?"
Elias turned.
The boy had dropped his pencil.
He was staring—at the back of Elias's head.
At the air around him.
"Stabilize now?" the system asked.
"Or initiate controlled release?"
"Say the word. I'll guide the burn."
Elias's throat was dry.
"What happens if I say yes?" he whispered.
"They'll understand you're not like them."
"But you'll survive the day."
The teacher turned at the noise.
"Ward? Everything alright?"
Every eye in the room was on him now.
Elias stood up slowly.
The shimmer above his shoulder intensified. The chalkboard crack deepened.
"Say it."
Elias looked down at his own hand.
His fingers were shaking. His sleeve smoked slightly at the edge.
He took a slow, steady breath.
Then forced it all down.
"No."
The shimmer vanished.
The heat dropped.
The light above stopped flickering.
Silence.
The teacher raised an eyebrow.
Elias forced a smile.
"Sorry. Migraine."
He sat down again.
No one said anything for the rest of the class.
After the bell rang, Elias left last.
The hallway was mostly empty. His pulse thundered in his ears. His vision was too clear—sharpened, high-contrast. Like everything had been turned up one click too far.
He turned the corner—
And froze.
She was there.
The girl.
Again.
Leaning against the wall. One hand in her pocket, the other holding something—an old book. Her braid was over her shoulder, and her eyes were on him before he even spoke.
"You're not doing a very good job," she said.
"At what?"
"Hiding."
Elias didn't answer.
She held out the book.
It was thin, bound in black cloth, the title long faded.
"I found this in the restricted section," she said. "Didn't know we had one. Did you?"
He stared at it.
"No."
She handed it to him. He didn't take it.
"I looked you up," she said. "There's no record of you enrolling this semester."
His jaw tightened.
"I don't know what's happening to me," he said.
She nodded.
"I believe that."
Then she walked away.
Again.