Chapter 6
The city learns fast when it wants something.
By morning, Ashfall feels different—alert in a way that isn't loud but isn't subtle either. Screens cycle through public safety notices. Transit scanners hum a second longer than usual. Drones hover lower, watching faces instead of traffic.
I notice because now I'm looking for it.
I walk to work with my hood up, phone on silent, heart ticking too loudly in my chest. Every reflection feels like an accusation.
Variable.
That's what he called me.
At the café, the manager pulls me aside before I can even clock in.
"Registry's been asking questions," she says quietly. "Nothing serious. Just... careful, okay?"
I nod, forcing a smile.
By noon, I've burned three drinks and forgotten two orders.
I can feel him before I see him.
Not like last night—this is sharper, tighter, like tension pulled thin.
He's across the street, half-hidden in the reflection of the glass windows. Not watching the café.
Watching the street.
Someone approaches the counter.
Hero.
Not the same one as yesterday.
This one doesn't pretend to be friendly.
"Coffee," he says, voice flat. His implant pulses faintly at his temple. "Black. No sugar."
I make it, hands steady through sheer force of will.
"You know," he continues casually, "most civilians don't realize how dangerous unregistered activity can be."
I slide the cup toward him. "I just make coffee."
He leans in slightly. "You just happen to attract anomalies."
My phone vibrates once in my pocket.
I don't look.
"You should be careful," the hero says. "People like Blackfall don't protect. They claim."
My jaw tightens.
"I don't need protection," I say.
He smiles without warmth. "Everyone does."
The pressure hits then.
Subtle—but unmistakable.
The spoon on the counter rattles.
The hero stiffens.
I don't turn around.
I already know.
The air thickens like a storm rolling in slow motion.
Kael steps into the café.
Not hiding this time.
Every screen flickers for half a second. Gravity bends just enough that people shift in their seats, unsettled, like they've forgotten how heavy they are.
The hero turns, hand drifting toward his sidearm.
"Back away from the civilian," he orders.
Kael doesn't look at him.
"Elara," he says.
My name in his voice is different than it is in anyone else's.
Lower. Intentional.
The hero raises his voice. "You're escalating."
"Yes," Kael agrees calmly. "You are."
He finally looks at the hero.
The temperature drops.
"You've been warned," the hero says. "Step away and no one gets hurt."
Kael tilts his head.
"Leave," he says.
The hero laughs once. "Or what?"
The answer comes in the form of pressure—focused, crushing, invisible. The hero's knees buckle as the floor cracks beneath his boots.
People scream.
Cups shatter.
I move without thinking.
"Ka—" I stop myself.
Kael's eyes flick to me instantly.
The restraint in his posture tightens—not loosens—like a held breath.
"Elara," he says sharply, "go."
"I won't leave you," I say.
That's the moment.
Something in his control fractures.
Not fully.
But enough.
The pressure spikes, bending the air so violently the hero is slammed backward into the wall, pinned there like gravity itself has decided he doesn't belong upright.
Kael steps closer to him, voice deadly quiet.
"You don't touch what's mine."
The word hits me like a shock.
The café goes silent.
Kael freezes.
Slowly, deliberately, he exhales.
The pressure eases.
The hero slumps to the floor, gasping.
Kael turns to me.
Regret flickers in his eyes.
"Go," he says again. Softer now. "Please."
I hesitate.
Then I run.
I don't stop running until my lungs burn.
I duck into a narrow service alley three blocks from the café, press my hands to my knees, and try to breathe past the shaking. The city noise rushes back in—cars, voices, a siren far enough away to pretend it isn't about me.
Mine.
The word keeps replaying.
I hadn't imagined it. I hadn't misunderstood.
He said it.
Footsteps land softly behind me.
Not rushed. Not chasing.
Controlled.
I straighten before I turn.
He's there, shadows pulled close like a second coat, expression unreadable. The alley light flickers once, then steadies—like the city itself is nervous around him.
"I told you to go," he says.
"I did," I reply. My voice isn't as steady as I want it to be. "I just didn't go far."
His gaze flicks over me—checking for injuries, scanning the space, counting exits. Protective. Automatic.
"Someone saw," I add. "A hero. He was watching."
"I know."
The calm in his voice is practiced. Too practiced.
I fold my arms. "You can't keep doing that."
"Doing what?"
"That." I gesture vaguely, helplessly. "Showing up. Saying things you don't mean."
His jaw tightens.
"I meant it," he says.
The alley feels smaller.
"You shouldn't have," I whisper.
He steps closer.
Not fast. Not threatening.
Close enough that the air between us changes, like pressure settling low in my chest.
"That's why I'm here," he says quietly. "To tell you it won't happen again."
My heart drops. "You don't mean that."
"I do," he says. "I have to."
"Because of them?"
"Because of me."
The honesty hits harder than denial.
"You lost control," I say.
He doesn't argue.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The city hums around us, indifferent.
"You scared them," I say finally.
His mouth curves without humor. "Good."
"You scared me," I add.
That gets his attention.
He stills, really looks at me now—not scanning, not calculating.
"I would never hurt you," he says immediately.
"I know," I say.
The word lands heavy.
"That's not the problem," I continue. "The problem is that when you said—"
I stop.
He watches me carefully, like he knows what's coming and isn't sure he wants to hear it.
"When you said mine," I finish softly.
The alley seems to hold its breath.
"I didn't plan to," he admits. "It slipped."
"That's worse," I say.
He exhales slowly. "Yes."
I take a step closer before I can talk myself out of it. The space between us hums—too close, too real.
"Do you regret it?" I ask.
His eyes darken.
"No."
The answer is instant.
"I regret that you heard it," he adds. "Not that it's true."
My pulse stutters.
"That's not fair," I whisper.
"Nothing about this is," he says.
He lifts a hand, then stops himself—fingers curling like it costs him something not to touch me.
"They'll come harder now," he continues. "The hero today—he won't back off. He'll push. Provoke. Try to make me lose control again."
"And if you do?" I ask.
He meets my eyes.
"People get hurt."
"Me?" I ask quietly.
The word cuts.
"No," he says. "Never."
I swallow.
"You can't promise that," I say. "Not if you keep choosing me."
He leans in—not enough to trap me, just enough that his voice doesn't need to rise.
"That's exactly why I'm trying to stop," he murmurs.
My chest tightens.
"You don't sound like someone who's stopping," I say.
A faint smile ghosts across his mouth. "I'm not very good at it."
I laugh softly before I can help myself. It comes out shaky.
"That's comforting," I say.
"It shouldn't be."
The alley light flickers again.
Somewhere beyond the buildings, something shifts—attention tightening, like a lens turning.
His head tilts slightly.
"He's still here," Kael says.
"Who?"
"The hero," he replies. "Watching. Learning."
My stomach twists. "Then you should go."
"Yes."
He doesn't move.
I hesitate, then speak before courage can leave me.
"Blackfall—"
He stiffens.
Not angry.
Focused.
He steps closer, close enough that my back meets the brick wall. Not trapped. Not touched.
Just near.
"That isn't what you should call me," he says softly.
My breath catches.
"I know," I whisper.
"Say it again," he murmurs. "Slowly."
My heart pounds.
"Blackfall," I repeat, unsure.
His breath brushes my ear.
"No," he says. "The other one."
I swallow.
"Ka—"
He lifts a finger, hovering near my wrist—not touching.
"Not yet," he says quietly. "If you say it out loud right now... I won't be able to leave."
The honesty in his voice is devastating.
I nod, even though every part of me wants to say it anyway.
"Soon," I promise.
His eyes close for half a second.
"When this gets worse," he says, opening them again, "you may hear things about me. You may be asked to choose."
"I already have," I say.
He searches my face, then nods once.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
The pressure lifts. The shadows loosen.
Before he steps back, he says one last thing—so quiet it feels like a confession meant only for me.
"You make me forget what I am."
Then he's gone.
From the rooftop across the street, the hero watches the alley where I stand alone, hand pressed to my chest, whispering a name I didn't say.
Not yet.
But soon.