Elior stepped out of the small café and let the warmth of the sun settle on his shoulders. The street was quiet for this time of day, a gentle lull between the morning rush and the early afternoon bustle. He had planned to stay far away from the streets that mattered, the corners he had memorized from previous weeks, the streets where the world ended. That was the promise he had made to himself, the rule he thought could protect him.
The first few steps felt ordinary. He walked slowly, eyes wandering over shopfronts and window displays. Children chased each other across the street, parents called after them, and somewhere a dog barked. A man balanced a stack of newspapers under his arm, tripping slightly over a crack in the sidewalk. Elior almost smiled. The city felt alive and mundane, and for a moment, he believed the world could stay that way.
Then he saw it.
A corner of the street. A lamppost half-bent from age. The way the sunlight struck the brick at a certain angle. His stomach tightened instantly, a muscle constricting that had nothing to do with hunger. The memory hit him first as an image, a sudden flash, and then it followed with a soundless jolt, as if every sense had been alerted at once.
No.
He froze. His feet rooted to the cracked pavement, heart hammering against his ribs. The memory spread like ink in water, creeping along every edge of his mind. He saw the green light, faint at first, teasing across the sky, and then erupting in waves that no human had the words to describe. He saw Aria's face, calm and tense, standing beside him, looking up at the sky with the kind of understanding that only comes when the impossible is unavoidable. He remembered the pressure, the heat without fire, the sound that was not sound, the vibration that was everywhere and nowhere.
His hands shook. He pressed them against his thighs, trying to ground himself, trying to convince himself that this was only memory. That it was only a recollection, a warning that he could avoid if he stayed rational, if he obeyed the rules.
"No," he whispered, and the word felt small, insufficient, swallowed by the weight of the recognition. "No. I was not supposed to be here."
But every instinct in him told him that he had walked willingly into this. Not in ignorance, but in a strange, quiet compliance. He had chosen the streets that led him here without thinking about the consequences, each small, reasonable decision folding into the next. Each act of kindness, each moment of distraction, had been harmless in isolation, but together they had drawn him inexorably toward the same place. The same spot where everything had ended.
The city continued around him, oblivious. A delivery truck rumbled past, horns honking. A group of teenagers laughed loudly, skidding on bicycles along the curb. A woman called after her dog as it dashed across the pavement. None of them noticed the green twinge beginning to form in the sky, faint and insistent, impossible for him to ignore.
Elior tried to step back. He told himself it was a hallucination, a trick of memory. He told himself that if he retraced his steps, if he turned and ran the other way, he could avoid it. The pull in his chest, the low hum behind his ribs, the heat rising in the air around him, all seemed like alarms meant to be ignored, meant to be rationalized away. But the city had shifted, subtly. The distance between lampposts, the way the cracks intersected, the pattern of shadows, all of it had been calculated by something beyond him. Something that knew exactly how far he could stray before returning.
A man carrying a briefcase bumped past him, apologizing quickly. Elior stepped aside, muttering an absent-minded "It's fine," his voice shaking despite his attempt at composure. He clenched his fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. The green in the sky deepened. Waves of color spread across the clouds, starting faint and spreading in unnatural arcs that he could not have imagined even if he had tried. He had seen it before. He had felt it before. And he had not stopped it then.
"I was supposed to avoid this," he said aloud, his voice trembling. His words fell on the empty street, ignored by everyone, meaningless. He wanted to run. He wanted to step backward, to turn around, to escape the inevitability, but every muscle in his legs felt as though it had been programmed to stay rooted. His awareness had become a trap, a cage that could not be opened.
From somewhere behind him, a child's laughter rang out. A girl skipped along the sidewalk, a balloon twisting in the wind. She glanced at him with curiosity, but she did not stop. The sound of her laughter felt cruel. It reminded him that this was ordinary. This was the world as it should be. And yet, for him, it could never remain ordinary. The choices he had made, even the smallest ones, had led him here. The inevitability of the green aurora had nothing to do with force or coercion. It had everything to do with consent.
He turned slightly, trying to retrace his steps, to step onto a street that was not mapped in memory, but the pull was immediate. His feet moved against his will, slowly at first, then with more certainty, toward the spot he had vowed never to approach. Each step felt like a betrayal, a confirmation that he had been complicit all along. He had believed he could avoid this, that discipline could protect him, that his careful planning could outrun inevitability. And yet, here he was.
He stopped, gasping for breath. The angle of sunlight was exactly the same as it had been before. The cracks in the sidewalk, the bricks in the buildings, the placement of lampposts, every detail aligned perfectly with the memory etched in his mind. He could not deny it anymore. The world had not waited for him. It had only waited for his choice, and he had made it.
A woman walked past, balancing a tray of drinks. She smiled politely, nodded, and continued on her way. A man paused to tie his shoelace. The ordinary motions of life continued, oblivious to the storm about to ignite. Elior could feel the first ripple in the air, a pressure that was not wind, a hum that was not sound. He could taste it on his tongue, metallic and electric.
He swallowed hard. "It begins," he whispered. The words felt insignificant, almost ritualistic. He wanted to call out to someone, to warn them, but no one would hear him. No one could. And if they did, what would they understand? The pull was subtle, invisible, logical. Nothing screamed or demanded. It merely presented itself as a series of reasonable, human steps, each one justified in isolation, until the consequence could not be avoided.
Elior clenched his jaw and tried to take a step backward, to deny his own agency, but the sensation of choice was already slipping away. He had wanted to believe he could resist. That knowledge and awareness could protect him. That reason and discipline could outweigh inevitability. And yet, the green tinge in the clouds was spreading faster now, edges sharpening, curving in impossible patterns across the sky.
A young man walked by, headphones on, humming a tune he could not place. He glanced at Elior briefly, then continued. A bus rumbled past, shaking the pavement beneath his feet. The ordinary city continued, and yet for him, the world was already changing.
He sank to the edge of the curb, hands pressed against his knees. Sweat ran down his temple. The memory, the inevitability, the pull of the aurora—it all came together in a sudden, undeniable clarity. He had not been dragged. He had not been forced. Every step, every decision, every act of reason had been his own. His mind had consented. His body had complied. He had walked willingly into the epicenter, guided by nothing but rationalization, small kindnesses, and the illusion of choice.
"No," he whispered again. The word felt heavier this time, resonating against his ribcage, but it carried no power. It could not undo what had already been done. He could feel the pressure of consequence tightening around him, expanding in invisible waves, filling the street, the air, the city.
The green light deepened, spreading over the buildings, the windows catching the unnatural glow. People began to glance upward, puzzled at the strange hue. Some pointed. Some laughed nervously. The ordinary motion of life continued, but it was distorted now, muted, caught between familiarity and the alien reality forming above them.
Elior stayed on the curb, motionless, trembling. He wanted to deny it, to step back, to claim ignorance, but the memory and the inevitability had fused into something undeniable. He had always known, in some deep, quiet part of his mind, that he would end up here. That he would walk here. That the end was not a consequence forced upon him, but a journey he had chosen without realizing it until it was too late.
A small child tugged at his mother's hand nearby, asking why the sky was green. He could only watch, frozen, as the first waves of the aurora ignited in the sky above, beautiful and impossible and terrifying in ways that could not be put into words.
Elior whispered to himself, "I chose this. I agreed to this." The words were not a surrender. They were not fear. They were a recognition. A resignation to the knowledge that agency had always existed, even when he had tried to deny it.
He closed his eyes, feeling the heat in the air, the vibrations in the pavement, the faint electric hum in his chest. He felt every choice he had made leading him here, each one logical, each one justified, each one seemingly harmless. He had believed discipline and rules could save him, but the real danger had never been the aurora, never been the green sky, never been the end. The danger had been himself, willing and human, making the steps that led here.
When he opened his eyes, the city was normal. The green light spread above, the ordinary movements of life continued, but he could see the pattern now, the inevitability in the ordinary. And he understood that knowing, seeing, remembering, none of it could change the path he had taken.
He whispered one last time, softly enough that no one would hear, "I was not supposed to be here." And yet he was.