The patrol car was parked wrong.
Aiden caught it in the reflection of a closed storefront window before he saw it directly. The front tires were angled slightly toward the curb, engine still running. Someone inside.
He didn't stop walking.
He shifted left, slowed half a step, and let two people pass him so he wasn't the closest body moving through the space. His hands stayed loose at his sides. Shoulders relaxed. Head forward.
He didn't look at the car.
Looking turned coincidence into attention.
He passed the vehicle without incident. No door opened. No engine revved.
He didn't loosen up until the next block.
The neighborhood changed gradually, not sharply. Fewer offices. More small businesses. Places that opened early and closed when they felt like it.
Aiden walked past a barbershop with the lights already on. Two men inside, one in a chair, one standing behind him. They both glanced up when Aiden passed.
Not alarmed.
Just aware.
He kept his pace steady.
At the corner, he stopped at a small coffee shop. No line. No music loud enough to cover conversation. An older woman stood behind the counter, arms folded loosely, watching the door.
"What you having?" she asked.
"Black coffee," Aiden said.
She poured it and slid the cup across without asking for a name. She studied him for a second longer than necessary.
"You passing through?" she asked.
"Yeah," Aiden said.
That answer landed cleanly. Not defensive. Not inviting.
She nodded and turned to the register.
He paid cash. Took the cup. Didn't linger.
Outside, he walked half a block before drinking. The coffee was hot enough to sting. He didn't mind.
He passed a mural painted on the side of a brick building. Faces. Names. Dates underneath some of them.
Aiden slowed without meaning to.
Not because he recognized anyone.
Because he recognized the format.
Someone had kept count here.
He kept moving.
Stopping invited questions. Questions invited memory.
Inside a public building, he used the restroom and washed his hands. He dried them carefully, then looked up at the mirror.
Green skin. Muted under fluorescent light. Same as yesterday.
He tugged his hoodie forward a little, not to hide it, just to soften the line of his jaw and neck. Habit.
He left without checking his phone.
The bus stop was crowded enough to blend into. Aiden stood near the back, not under the sign. When the bus arrived, he boarded mid-line and sat near the rear exit.
Two teenage boys across the aisle glanced at him, whispered something, then looked away.
Curiosity. Not fear.
He ignored them.
The bus jolted hard over a pothole. His body compensated automatically—feet braced, muscles tightened.
The metal frame beneath him creaked.
No one else reacted.
He stood at the next stop and got off.
He spent the early afternoon walking with no destination. Letting the tension drain out in pieces.
A security guard outside a bank watched him approach, then relaxed when Aiden adjusted his path and gave space.
At a crosswalk, a woman hesitated before stepping near him, then crossed anyway.
Spacing.
Consistent.
Manageable.
His phone vibrated once in his pocket while he was sitting on a bench near a public building. He didn't grab it immediately.
He waited until two people passed. Then another.
Then he checked.
Brashear:
The secondary incident wasn't a match. Different energy profile.
Aiden exhaled through his nose.
He typed back.
Then say that clearly.
A minute passed.
Working on it. There's resistance.
Aiden stared at the screen.
There always is, he typed.
No reply.
He turned the phone off and stood.
By late afternoon, the heat made everyone shorter-tempered. Aiden felt it too. Jaw tight. Hands flexing when someone brushed too close.
He corrected himself immediately. Slowed his breathing. Let his hands hang.
He wasn't thinking about power.
He was thinking about not becoming a story someone else got to finish.
At a grocery store, the aisles were too narrow. Too many reflective surfaces.
He grabbed food quickly and waited in line.
The man behind him stood too close.
Aiden stepped half a pace sideways. Nothing abrupt. Just enough to create space.
The man noticed and stepped back without comment.
At the counter, the cashier paused before handing back his change.
"You good?" she asked quietly.
Aiden met her eyes briefly. "Yeah."
She slid the receipt across the counter instead of putting it in his hand.
He took it, nodded once, and left.
Outside, he leaned against the wall and ate slowly.
The place he chose to sleep wasn't cheap and wasn't nice.
Above a restaurant that smelled like oil and spices. Cash only. No app. No reviews.
The owner looked at him, then at his hands.
"One night?" the man asked.
"Two," Aiden said.
"Don't bring trouble," the man said.
"I won't," Aiden replied.
The key slid across the counter.
In the room, Aiden locked the door and sat on the bed. Elbows on knees. Phone in hand.
He typed before he could overthink it.
If this goes public, you lose control of the narrative.
The reply came faster than he expected.
I know.
Then don't let them frame me first, Aiden typed.
That one took longer.
You're not the only one saying that.
Aiden stared at the message.
That meant Brashear wasn't alone.
That meant arguments were happening.
That meant time.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling.
The day hadn't been dangerous.
But it had been heavy.
He wasn't angry. Not scared either.
Just tired of being pre-decided.
He'd spent his whole life reading rooms before rooms decided how to read him. Knowing when to speak. Knowing when silence was safer. Keeping his hands visible without thinking about it.
Power hadn't changed that.
It had just raised the cost of mistakes.
His phone stayed face-down on the table.
Tomorrow, someone would try to move the story forward without him.
If that happened, he wasn't planning to threaten anyone.
He just wasn't letting the room decide without him in it anymore.
He closed his eyes.
And for once, he slept without setting an alarm.