The pulse did not fade when he left the street.
That was the first thing he realized.
It stayed with him as he walked, faint but persistent, like pressure behind the eyes. Every step felt slightly off, as though the ground responded a fraction too late. He stopped once, then again, testing whether the sensation would vanish if he ignored it.
It didn't.
He passed a closed storefront. The glass reflected his face, unchanged, ordinary. No glow. No distortion. If something had awakened inside him, it had done so quietly.
A ripple passed through the reflection anyway.
Not on the surface of the glass, but behind it.
He stepped back. The ripple stopped. He waited, then leaned forward again. Nothing happened. After a moment, he convinced himself it was just lingering unease and continued on.
That was when he noticed how few people were on the street.
Not empty—just thinner than it should have been. Conversations ended quickly. Footsteps avoided certain alleys without anyone seeming to realize why. A man crossed the road halfway through, hesitated, then turned around as if he'd forgotten something important.
The pulse tightened.
He followed it.
Not deliberately. He didn't choose a direction. He simply stopped resisting the faint pull in his chest and let his steps adjust on their own.
The street narrowed. Sound dulled. The air felt heavier, like dust that hadn't settled yet.
Something was wrong here.
He didn't see it at first. He felt it, the same way one feels eyes on their back without proof. When he finally spotted it, it was crouched beside a pile of discarded crates, small and misshapen, its outline unstable.
It wasn't hiding.
It simply didn't care whether it was seen.
The pulse reacted before fear did.