The alley stretched before Elias Varn like a throat of shadows, its damp walls glistening under the weak glow of a flickering streetlamp. His sneakers slapped against the uneven pavement, each step a jolt that rattled his bones and sent echoes bouncing off the brick. The air was thick with the stench of rotting garbage and motor oil, a sour tang that clung to his throat as he gulped down ragged breaths. His hood flapped against his ears, the fabric sodden with sweat and the morning's ash, and his glasses fogged with every exhale, blurring the world into a smear of dark blues and grays. He didn't stop to wipe them—stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant facing what he'd left behind.
The hospital's clamor faded with distance, the sirens and shouts dissolving into a dull hum that pulsed at the edge of his hearing. But the weight of it—the cameras, the cries of "The Beacon," the mother's tear-streaked face—pressed against his chest, heavier than the rubble he'd escaped. His hands shook as he shoved them into his pockets, fingers brushing the worn edge of his employee ID: Elias Varn, Custodial Staff. A nobody's name, a nobody's life, until last night had ripped it all apart.
He stumbled over a cracked curb, catching himself against a rusted fire escape that groaned under his weight. The metal bit into his palms, cold and grounding, and he paused, chest heaving as he scanned the alley's mouth. The street beyond glowed with the orange flicker of emergency lights, a reminder of the chaos he'd fled. He couldn't go back—not to Mira's relentless questions, not to the crowd's worshipful stares, not to the voice that whispered truths he didn't want to hear. "They will seek you. They will break you." The words slithered through his mind again, low and resonant, a shadow he couldn't outrun.
"Who are you?" he muttered, his voice a hoarse rasp lost in the alley's gloom. He pressed his forehead against the fire escape, the chill seeping into his skin, but no answer came—only silence, thick and mocking. His legs trembled, urging him to keep moving, and he pushed off, plunging deeper into the maze of backstreets. The city unfolded around him, a warren of narrow passages and looming tenements, their windows dark and unseeing. He'd lived here all his life—West Hollow, a gray sprawl of concrete and forgotten dreams—but it felt alien now, a labyrinth closing in.
A clatter broke the stillness, sharp and metallic, and Elias froze, heart lurching into his throat. He spun toward the sound, glasses slipping down his nose, and squinted into the shadows. A figure emerged from behind a dumpster—a lanky kid, maybe sixteen, with a mop of red hair and a skateboard tucked under one arm. His hoodie was patched at the elbows, and a smear of grease streaked his freckled cheek. He froze too, eyes widening as they locked onto Elias.
"Whoa, dude," the kid said, raising his free hand. "Didn't mean to spook you. Just cutting through." His voice was light, but there was a wariness in it, a street-sharp edge that belied his casual slouch.
Elias backed up a step, his sneakers scraping against a shard of broken bottle. "I—I'm not looking for trouble," he stammered, hands half-raised as if to ward off an attack. The ember in his chest flickered, a faint heat that prickled under his ribs, and he clamped down on it, terrified of what might spill out.
The kid tilted his head, sizing him up. "You look like you're running from something. Cops? Ex? End of the world?" A grin tugged at his lips, but it faltered as he glanced past Elias toward the distant glow of the hospital. "Wait—holy crap, you're that guy, aren't you? The Beacon?"
Elias's stomach dropped, the name a blade twisting in his gut. "No," he said, too quick, too loud. "I'm nobody. Just—leave me alone." He turned to flee, but the kid darted forward, dropping his skateboard with a clack that echoed like a gunshot.
"Hold up!" The board rolled to a stop as the kid blocked his path, hands out. "I'm not gonna narc, man. I saw the news—hospital goes boom, people pulling superhero stuff out of nowhere, and some janitor's in the middle of it? That's you, right?" His green eyes sparkled with a mix of awe and mischief. "I'm Rory, by the way. Rory Tate. You got a name, or do I just call you Beacon?"
"Elias," he muttered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. He cursed himself silently—why give this kid anything? "And I'm not what you think. I didn't do anything. It just… happened."
Rory arched a brow, unconvinced. "Sure, man. People don't just happen to turn a nurse into Spider-Man. That's some next-level stuff." He kicked his skateboard upright, spinning it absently on one wheel. "So what's the deal? You got powers, but you're hauling ass away from the action? Most guys would be flexing for the cameras."
"I don't want this," Elias snapped, his voice cracking. He adjusted his glasses, fingers trembling as he pushed them up. "I don't want cameras or people or—or any of it. I just want to go home." The ember flared again, sharper, and he winced, pressing a hand to his chest as if he could smother it.
Rory's grin faded, replaced by a flicker of something softer—concern, maybe, or recognition. "Yeah, I get that. Home's safe, right? Except when it's not." He shrugged, a quick jerk of his shoulders, and glanced down the alley. "Look, I'm not here to hassle you. I crash around here sometimes—beats the group home. But if you're dodging the spotlight, you're doing it wrong. Those news vans are gonna sniff you out."
Elias's throat tightened, panic clawing up his spine. "What do you mean?"
Rory nodded toward the street. "They've got drones up already, buzzing like flies. Saw 'em on my way over. You're trending, man—#BeaconOfHope or some crap. You stick around, they'll box you in."
The words hit like a punch, and Elias's gaze darted skyward, half-expecting to see a drone's blinking lights bearing down. The ember pulsed, a warning, and he staggered back, breath hitching. "I—I have to go," he said, turning to run again, but Rory's voice stopped him.
"Hey, wait! You got a plan, or you just gonna sprint 'til you drop?" Rory stepped closer, skateboard dangling from one hand. "I know these streets. Back ways, hideouts—stuff the news hounds won't find. I can help."
Elias hesitated, caught between distrust and desperation. "Why would you do that?"
Rory shrugged again, a lopsided grin creeping back. "'Cause I'm bored, and you're the most interesting thing since the bodega started selling glow-in-the-dark soda. Plus, you look like you're about to puke. C'mon, I've got a spot a few blocks over. No cameras, no cops."
Every instinct screamed at Elias to refuse—to keep running, alone, where no one could drag him back into the chaos. But the kid's offer hung there, a lifeline in the dark, and his legs ached, his chest burned, and the voice whispered again: "They will find you." He swallowed hard, nodding once. "Okay. But just—just for a minute."
Rory's grin widened, and he jerked his head down a side passage. "Sweet. Follow me, Beacon—uh, Elias." He kicked off on his skateboard, the wheels humming against the pavement, and Elias trailed after, each step heavier than the last.
The passage twisted through a warren of alleys, past overflowing trash bins and graffiti-smeared walls, until Rory skidded to a stop at a boarded-up storefront. Its windows were papered over, the sign above faded to illegible scrawl, and a rusted chain hung loose across the door. Rory slipped the chain free with practiced ease, ushering Elias inside. The air was stale, thick with dust and the faint musk of mildew, and the floor creaked underfoot as they stepped into a cluttered space—old shelves, a sagging couch, a lantern flickering on a crate.
"Home sweet squat," Rory said, flopping onto the couch with a puff of dust. "Used to be a pawn shop 'til it tanked. Nobody bothers me here." He tossed his skateboard aside and dug a granola bar from his pocket, tearing it open with his teeth. "You want half?"
Elias shook his head, hovering near the door. His glasses fogged again, and he wiped them on his sleeve, the world sharpening into focus—Rory's easy sprawl, the lantern's warm glow, the quiet that felt too fragile to trust. "Thanks," he mumbled, "but I can't stay long."
"Suit yourself." Rory chewed thoughtfully, watching him. "So, what's your deal? You're freaking out like you robbed a bank, but you're some kinda hero. What's the catch?"
"There's no catch," Elias said, sharper than he meant. "I don't know what's happening. It's—it's not me. It's just… something I can't stop." The ember flared as he spoke, a jolt of heat that made him clutch his chest, and Rory sat up, eyes narrowing.
"Whoa, you okay? You're doing that glowy-eye thing again."
Elias blinked, startled, and caught his reflection in a cracked mirror on the wall—his hazel eyes glinted faintly, a shimmer of light that wasn't there before. "What the—" He stumbled back, the ember surging, and a pulse rippled out, weaker than before but enough to rattle the shelves. A tin can clattered to the floor, and Rory leapt up, skateboard in hand like a shield.
"Dude, chill! You're gonna bring the roof down!" Rory's voice cracked, but he didn't run—just stared, half-crouched, as the pulse faded. "That's your power, right? The superhero juice?"
"I don't know what it is!" Elias snapped, tears pricking his eyes. "It happens when I'm scared, and I'm always scared, okay? I don't want it—I don't want any of this!" His voice broke, and he sank to the floor, knees drawn up, hands tangling in his hair.
Rory lowered the skateboard, his bravado softening. "Hey, man, I get it. Sucks when stuff picks you instead of the other way around." He hesitated, then slid the granola bar across the floor. "Eat something. You look like a ghost."
Elias didn't move, the wrapper crinkling under his shoe. The ember settled, a dull ache, and the voice returned, colder now: "You cannot hide forever." He flinched, breath hitching, and Rory frowned.
"You hearing that voice again?"
Elias nodded, barely a twitch. "It won't stop."
Rory whistled low. "Creepy. Like, evil-possession creepy, or just annoying-roommate creepy?"
"I don't know," Elias whispered. "But it's real. And it knows me."
Before Rory could reply, a hum buzzed overhead—a faint, mechanical whine that grew louder. Rory's head snapped up, and he darted to the window, peeling back the paper to peek out. "Crap. Drone. Told you they'd come sniffing." He turned back, eyes bright with urgency. "We gotta move, Elias. Now."
Elias's heart sank, the ember flaring anew. The shadows were closing in, and running was all he had left.