Aiden didn't move for six minutes.
He counted them.
Not because six was important, but because counting gave him something to focus on that wasn't his pulse or the noise below. He sat on the damaged rooftop with his back against a bent air duct, feet planted flat, hands resting on his thighs. He didn't shift his weight. He didn't stretch. He didn't test anything.
He waited.
The sounds below stayed distant. Sirens moved past instead of closer. No shouting from the street. No helicopters overhead.
That was the first usable piece of information.
He checked his breathing. Slow enough. Not shaking. His hands were steady. The pressure in his chest—whatever it was—felt present but inactive. Like tension in a muscle you weren't using.
Good.
He stood carefully, transferring weight in stages instead of all at once. The rooftop complained but didn't crack. He paused again, waited ten seconds, then took another step.
Still fine.
That told him something else: standing wasn't the problem. Sudden force was.
He walked to the edge of the roof and looked down. Five floors. A straight drop onto a side street with parked cars and trash bins. Jumping was out. He didn't know how hard he'd land, and he wasn't interested in testing that in public.
He scanned instead.
Fire escape on the adjacent building. Rusted but intact. About a meter gap.
Jumping sideways was still jumping.
So he didn't.
He backed away and found the stairwell door. It resisted when he pushed it open, metal warped from earlier damage. He leaned into it slowly. The door bent. Hinges screamed. It gave way.
He froze again.
No reaction beyond the door.
"Okay," he said quietly, mostly to mark the moment.
He took the stairs down one step at a time.
Street level felt worse.
Too many people. Too many variables.
Aiden stepped out into an alley and stopped immediately, letting two pedestrians pass before moving again. He kept his head down and his shoulders relaxed, trying to look like someone who belonged there. No rushing. No scanning like a cornered animal.
Normal people didn't scan.
He walked three blocks without incident. That was enough to confirm something important: no perimeter, no immediate response.
If anyone was responding at all, they were still trying to understand what happened.
He cut through a parking lot and checked his phone. No signal. Battery still fine.
He powered it off anyway.
If something was interfering with reception, repeatedly pinging towers wasn't smart.
Food came next.
He avoided convenience stores near main roads and went farther than he wanted to, sticking to a strip of older businesses with faded signs and cracked windows. He chose a place that looked like it barely survived on regular days.
Inside, he kept movements minimal. Picked items that didn't need heating. Paid cash. Didn't speak unless necessary.
The cashier barely glanced at him.
Good.
Outside, he ate standing up, back against a brick wall, eyes tracking reflections in nearby windows. Nothing unusual. No one doubling back. No phones raised.
He finished eating and dumped the wrappers in a public bin instead of carrying them.
No trail.
Clothes were next.
He needed to change what he was wearing, but not in a way that stood out. No dramatic disguises. Just neutral.
A thrift store solved that. Hoodie. Loose jacket. Gloves. Backpack.
He paid cash again.
Before leaving, he stepped into the bathroom and checked himself in the mirror.
Green skin was an issue.
Less than he expected, but still an issue.
Under normal lighting, it wasn't neon. More muted. Still obvious up close.
He pulled the hood up and tested angles. Shadows helped. Distance helped more.
Good enough.
He left.
By early afternoon, he had moved far enough from the construction site to feel marginally better. Not safe. Just not immediately visible.
He avoided public transport. Too many cameras. Too many recorded transactions. Walking was slower but gave him control.
He noted patrol cars as he passed them. No lights. No urgency. Just presence.
That meant official confusion, not pursuit.
He checked news on his phone once he powered it back on. Signal flickered briefly. Enough to load headlines.
Structural failure. Possible gas pocket. Ongoing investigation.
No mention of casualties beyond "minor injuries".
That mattered.
If people had died, response would escalate faster.
He locked the phone again.
The library was a calculated risk.
Quiet. Climate-controlled. Public restrooms. Internet access if needed.
Also cameras.
He went anyway.
He sat where he could see entrances without being obvious and stayed for twenty minutes. Long enough to confirm nobody was approaching him directly.
Then two men came in separately and sat too close for coincidence.
They didn't look at him.
That was the problem.
Aiden left immediately.
No confrontation. No testing. No curiosity.
He wasn't interested in winning a situation. He was interested in avoiding one.
The motel was worse than the warehouse, but it was private.
He paid for one night. Cash. Fake name. The clerk didn't care.
Inside, he tested the room the same way he tested everything else. Sat on the bed carefully. Pressed the mattress lightly. Leaned against the wall.
Nothing broke.
Good.
He showered quickly, kept water pressure low, movements slow. The mirror fogged up. He didn't clear it.
He dressed and sat on the bed, backpack at his feet.
This wasn't sustainable.
He needed information, but not from authorities and not from anyone offering help too fast. Anyone who approached him now had leverage or an agenda.
He didn't want either.
He needed time.
Time meant staying mobile without drawing attention.
He lay down and slept in short intervals, waking every hour.
The text message woke him fully.
One vibration. Then another.
He checked the phone.
One bar.
Unknown number.
He didn't respond immediately. He read it twice instead.
We need to talk. You don't know what you're carrying.
That told him enough to be suspicious.
Second message followed.
If I wanted you detained, it would already be happening.
That was either a bluff or a red flag.
Either way, responding now would confirm the number was active.
He didn't.
He powered the phone off and set it aside.
Someone knowing his movement patterns was bad. Someone claiming to predict him was worse.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, he would leave the city.
Not dramatically. Not running.
Just gone.
Before anyone finished figuring out what questions to ask.
He closed his eyes again, already planning routes, knowing one thing with certainty:
This wasn't about control yet.
It was about not getting cornered.
And he intended to stay that way.