The man across the street was on fire.
No one screamed.
People slowed. Some looked away. Others kept walking, heads down, like it was a slight inconvenience for them. The fire wasn't loud. It clung to the man's arms and shoulders, tight and controlled, like it knew where it was allowed to be. He stood there blinking, confused, waiting for something to happen.
Someone muttered, "He pushed it too far."
Another voice replied, "Too early."
The man dropped to his knees.
That was when Gale realized his coffee had gone cold.
He didn't notice it when he stopped walking. Or when his hand started shaking. The cup rattled softly.
The fire folded inward.
The man hit the pavement with his face. Smoke poured from his mouth and eyes. The flames vanished the moment his skull hit the concrete, leaving scorched skin and a burnt smell that clung to the street.
Two people stepped forward. Not in a rush. They checked his pulse. One shook their head.
"Another one," they said.
No sirens came.
Gale waited longer than he needed to before moving again. He stepped around the body, careful not to look too long. Looking too long made people nervous. Nervous people made them curious. Curiosity made them ask questions.
Questions were expensive.
The city was already awake. Vendors shouted prices. Screens flickered between ads and static. Somewhere above, something shattered. No one flinched.
One in five.
People said it like a joke. Or a warning. Never officially. Nothing was official anymore. But everyone counted sometimes, during family dinners, classrooms.
Gale reached his building and stopped.
A new mark had been burned into the doorframe. Thin lines, almost like writing if he didn't look closely at it. He'd seen symbols like that before.
They never stayed there for long.
He didn't touch it.
Inside, the hallway lights buzzed unevenly. Mrs. Karel from 3B was arguing with the air again, voice sharp and deliberate.
"I told you," she said, finger raised. "Not today."
The air didn't answer.
Gale slipped past before she noticed him. Last time she had accused him of listening. He still didn't know what that meant, but the argument lasted hours.
His apartment door was stuck. It always did at nights like this.
He leaned into it.
The moment it opened, the pressure hit him.
He froze.
Nothing looked wrong. Table. Chair. The sink was dripping. But the air felt thicker. Waiting.
He stepped inside.
The door shut on its own.
The headache came instantly.
Sharp. Focused. Like something had shot through his head. Gale staggered, catching himself on the table. The cup slipped from his hand and rolled, coffee spreading across the floor.
The smell helped. A little.
"Okay," he said, quietly. "Okay."
His heartbeat was wrong.
Then the chair moved.
Just an inch.
Gale stared at it.
The pain spiked.
The chair scraped again, dragging toward him.
He didn't think. Thinking about anything hurt.
"Stop," he said.
The chair stopped.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the pressure had. His knees nearly gave out.
He laughed once. "I didn't hurt that"
The headache flared harder. For a moment, he couldn't remember the word for chair. Or why it mattered.
The table moved
Something inside him pulled.
The table slid and bumped into his leg.
Pain snapped him back.
"No," he said. Louder.
The air tightened.
Blood ran from his nose. He wiped it without looking, smearing red across his knuckles.
He'd seen this before.
One in five.
The chair tipped over.
The moment it hit the floor, everything stopped.
The pressure vanished. The headache dulled. The room went quiet again empty.
Gale slid down the wall, breathing hard.
Time passed.
Eventually he laughed again. "So that's it," he said. "That's how it all is…"
The words felt wrong. Too clean.
A knock hit the door.
Three sharp raps.
Gale froze.
Another knock. Slower.
"Open up," a voice said. Calm. "You felt it."
Gale didn't move.
"If we were here to take you," the voice added, "you wouldn't be standing."
That didn't help reassure him.
The lock clicked anyway.
The door opened a crack.
A woman stood in the hallway. Hands visible. No uniform. No symbol. Scar along her jaw.
Her gaze slid past him—chair on the floor, table out of place, blood on his hand.
She paused just a little too long.
"You're late," she said.
"Late for what?" Gale asked.
She smiled without warmth.
His head started to hurt again.
"I'm a Clerk," she added, like it explained nothing. "Which means I don't keep answers. I pass them along."
Somewhere outside, something screamed.
The woman listened, then looked back at him.
"Information isn't free," she said. "But you already paid part of the price."
Gale swallowed. "I didn't ask for this."
"No one does," the Clerk said. "That's why it works."
She stepped back, giving him space he didn't feel safe using.
"One in five," she said. "Looks like today, it was you, Gale."
She turned and walked away before he could ask how she knew his name.
The door stayed open.
The chair didn't move.