Morning never truly came.
The sky lightened just enough to suggest the idea of dawn, but the clouds remained thick and unmoving, like a lid pressed down on the city. What little sunlight reached the streets felt weak—tired.
Aren noticed it immediately.
"The light's wrong," he said quietly.
Mira walked a few steps ahead of him, boots crunching softly over shattered glass. "It's always wrong after the Sky moves."
They had been walking for hours. No destination. Just forward.
The city around them looked intact at first glance—buildings still standing, roads still stretching where they always had—but something fundamental had shifted. Doors were left open. Cars sat abandoned in the middle of intersections. Screens flickered uselessly, repeating emergency broadcasts that had lost all meaning.
Aren felt hollow.
Not exhausted.
Not shocked.
Hollow.
Like something had been removed and never replaced.
They passed a group of survivors huddled inside a bus stop. No one spoke. No one cried. Their eyes followed Aren as he walked past, and he felt a sharp sting behind his forehead.
They can feel it, he thought.
They don't know what—but they know I'm wrong.
"Don't slow down," Mira muttered. "Some people sense disturbances. They won't understand it, but fear spreads faster than truth."
"Disturbances," Aren repeated. "That's what you call this?"
"That's what it starts as."
They stopped near an underground station entrance, half-collapsed but still accessible. A dim emergency light glowed faintly inside, buzzing like an insect trapped in amber.
"We'll rest here," Mira said.
Aren hesitated. "Underground feels… closer."
"Yes," she replied. "That's why it's safer."
He didn't understand that. Not yet.
The station smelled like dust and metal.
A handful of people were already there—six, maybe seven—spread out along the platform. No one looked at anyone else for too long.
Aren felt it immediately.
Pressure.
Different from the Sky.
Smaller. Fragmented.
Human.
His steps slowed.
Mira noticed. "You feel them, don't you?"
"Yes," he said. "They're… loud. But not with sound."
"That means you're still just listening," she said. "That's good."
"That doesn't sound good."
"It is. For now."
They chose a spot near a cracked pillar. Aren sat down, pulling his knees toward his chest.
The pressure intensified.
A tall man stood near the tracks, his posture stiff, hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically. Every few seconds, the air around him shimmered faintly, like heat rising from asphalt.
Aren swallowed.
"What's wrong with him?"
Mira didn't look. "He's holding."
"Holding what?"
"Something the Sky touched and didn't finish."
Across the platform, a girl around Aren's age sat completely still, eyes unfocused. Shadows pooled unnaturally at her feet, even though the light above her was the same as everywhere else.
"She's not listening," Mira continued. "She's leaking."
Aren's heart pounded. "Leaking what?"
Mira finally turned to face him.
"Consequences."
Hours passed without anyone speaking.
Then the man by the tracks screamed.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was short, raw, and involuntary—like a reflex finally snapping.
The shimmer around him collapsed inward. The air rushed toward his body, compressing violently. He fell to his knees, gasping, as if the space around him had suddenly grown too heavy to exist in.
No blood.
No visible wounds.
Just silence where a presence had been.
Aren felt it disappear.
A sharp emptiness tore through his chest.
"Why?" he whispered.
Mira's jaw tightened. "Because he tried to carry something alone."
No one approached the body.
Eventually, someone covered it with a jacket.
The girl with the shadows began to cry—but no sound came out.
Aren realized then that this place wasn't a shelter.
It was a threshold.
Later, a new group arrived.
Five people. Calm. Alert.
Different.
Aren felt them before he saw them—structured, contained. Like sealed containers under pressure.
The one in front was a woman with short dark hair and a scar across her cheek. Her eyes moved constantly, scanning faces, exits, corners.
She noticed Aren immediately.
Her gaze lingered.
"You," she said, pointing. "You hear, don't you?"
Aren froze.
Mira stepped between them. "Careful."
The woman raised an eyebrow. "So it's true. The Listener's active again."
The word sent a ripple through the station.
Listener.
Aren hated how it sounded like a title.
"We're not here to take him," the woman continued. "Relax. If we wanted that, you'd already be gone."
"That's not reassuring," Aren muttered.
A man behind her chuckled softly. "He's still green."
"Enough," the woman said. She turned back to Mira. "The city's destabilizing faster than predicted. Fractures are forming."
"Already?" Mira asked quietly.
"Yes. People are responding in three ways."
She held up three fingers.
"Some hear—like him."
"One finger lowered."
"Some hold—until they break."
Another finger lowered.
"And some try to use what answers."
Her last finger curled slowly into her palm.
Aren felt cold.
"That's… a system?" he asked.
The woman tilted her head. "It becomes one."
The lights flickered violently.
Everyone tensed.
Aren felt the whisper brush against his mind—not words this time, but weight.
"Don't answer," Mira whispered urgently.
He didn't.
The pressure passed.
The woman watched him closely.
"Good," she said. "He's learning."
"Learning what?" Aren snapped. "How to survive?"
"No," she replied calmly. "How not to become a disaster."
The shadows at the girl's feet surged suddenly, spreading outward like ink.
People backed away.
Mira swore under her breath. "She's losing containment."
"Then we leave," the woman said. "Now."
As they moved, Aren glanced back once.
The girl's eyes met his.
For just a moment, he heard something—not from the sky, not from himself.
From her.
I didn't want this.
Then the station doors slammed shut behind them.
The sound echoed far longer than it should have.
Aren realized something then, with terrible clarity.
The Sky wasn't granting power.
It was redistributing burden.
And the world was already bending under the weight.