Aren didn't fly back.
He walked.
Each step felt wrong—too slow, too loud, too real. The city outskirts crept back into view as dawn began to bleed into the sky, painting everything a tired gray. The world looked normal again.
That scared him more than the drones.
Lower Crest was waking up when he reached it. Vendors setting up. People rubbing sleep from their eyes. Life pretending nothing had happened.
Aren pulled his hood low and kept his head down.
Every shadow felt like eyes.
When his building came into view, his chest tightened. The concrete block leaned the same way it always had. Windows cracked. Paint peeling. Home.
For a second, he almost believed everything could go back.
He climbed the stairs quietly.
Third floor. End of the hall.
The door was open.
Aren stopped.
His blood went cold.
"Mom…?" he called softly.
No answer.
The apartment smelled wrong.
Not smoke.
Not blood.
Something sharper.
He stepped inside.
Drawers were open. Chairs knocked over. The old cabinet lay broken on its side, its contents spilled like someone had been in a hurry—or looking for something specific.
Aren's breathing quickened.
"Mom!"
He moved faster now, heart slamming as he reached the bedroom.
It was empty.
The bed was disturbed. The blanket half-dragged off. The window open despite the cold.
Aren stood there, frozen.
Then he saw it.
A small device on the table. Black. Unmarked.
Listening.
The air around him shuddered.
Glass rattled. The walls groaned.
Aren grabbed the device and crushed it in his hand. Sparks died instantly.
Too late.
"They came for me," he whispered.
His legs weakened, and he sank onto the edge of the bed.
No…
He searched the apartment again—desperately, irrationally—as if his mother might suddenly be there if he looked hard enough. The bathroom. The kitchen. The balcony.
Nothing.
Only silence.
Aren slid down against the wall, fists pressed to his eyes.
"I told you I'd be back," he said hoarsely. "I said—just wait for me."
His chest tightened until breathing hurt.
This was his fault.
The tower. The cameras. The running.
The sky.
Outside, voices echoed in the hall—neighbors talking in hushed tones.
"Did you hear?"
"They took her in the night."
"Government, maybe."
"Poor woman… her son…"
Aren's nails dug into his palms.
They hadn't taken him.
They'd taken leverage.
Something inside him snapped—not loudly, not violently—but cleanly, like a thread pulled too tight.
He stood.
His fear didn't vanish.
It hardened.
"They want me," he said quietly. "Then they should've just asked."
The wind slipped through the open window, curling around him like a cloak.
Aren turned toward the door.
For the first time since gaining his power, he wasn't running to escape.
He was running toward something.