Kyo exited the alley just before dawn.
Seoul stirred under a thin layer of mist.
Morning light bled into the skyline, turning glass and concrete ghostlike as neon lights sputtered and died.
The intersection ahead was unusually wide— five mismatched lanes carved through the heart of a commercial district. Competing convenience stores faced two shuttered subway exits. A coffee chain flickered to life.
The streets were quiet. Almost.
A small boy—maybe six, maybe seven—broke free from a woman's grip and chased a soccer ball into the road.
Kyo stopped.
The boy laughed as he ran—fast, loose-limbed, fearless in that way only kids could be.
Then: brakes screaming.
A half-full city bus. Too fast. Too close.
Kyo felt the world narrow to a single point. The Constant hummed steady in his chest.
He didn't move—not because he couldn't, but because he knew exactly what would happen if he did.
The Constant was not a tool he used. It reacted. If it flared too hard, HID would have him within the hour.
And he needed to stay in Seoul. He needed to find him.
Seeing her again too would be… something else.
Everything he'd buried would come crashing back.
He heard it first: the woman's scream. Likely the boy's mother. The boy himself, soccer ball in hand, the innocent deer-in-the headlights look. The bus, screeching, groaning, trying to stop.
Fuck it.
His fists clenched. The metal drain near his foot buzzed. Time began to slip.
Kyo's body moved before his mind could say no.
Three steps. A quick breath. A snap of his fingers—not habit, but instinct.
A stride. And then another.
The Constant hummed slightly louder, not violent, not sharp—just enough. Like wire pulled tight beneath the skin—tense, humming, ready to snap.
He stepped off the curb, coat flying behind him as he crossed two lanes in three heartbeats.
At the last second, Kyo snapped his left hand forward—cutting the air.
The kinetic field pulsed—silent, invisible, real.
Time folded.
The bus twisted sideways, lifted off the ground, and slammed into a lamppost.
The shockwave shattered glass, blew out a side mirror and sent a few passengers lurching forward—confused, dazed, but alive.
The woman reached the boy—shaken, sobbing, but alive.
Kyo walked away. But it was too late.
Some of the early morning commuters who witnessed the scene were now looking at him.
Phones up. Blurry footage already uploading.
A woman said "Did he just—"
Someone else "He caught the wind. I swear—"
He turned a corner. Fifteen seconds later, he was gone.
He could already feel it—soft, silent, crawling beneath the pavement. Surveillance totems watching. Listening. Cameras humming above the street.
HID would know.