The stillness was eerie.
Aemon blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the pale morning light filtering through the frosted bathroom window. The floor was cold against his back, but the pain that had gripped his body hours ago had dulled. The agony was gone, replaced by a strange warmth in his chest—a soft thrum, like a second heartbeat that pulsed with each breath.
He sat up, groaning as stiff muscles resisted. The air smelled sharp, chemical and sour—bleach, bile, and fear. The events of the night before came back to him in a rush: the sickness, the pain, the burning light behind his eyes.
And then the dream—or was it more than that?
His mother's voice still echoed in his head.
"Use your strength. Keep living."
Aemon's gaze drifted to the mirror. He didn't want to look. Not yet. But he had to.
Slowly, he stood and stepped closer. His reflection met him with an eerie calm.
His hair was black. Not brown. Not even the darkest shade of brown. It was pure, ink-soaked black—almost metallic in how it caught the light. It fell slightly longer now, brushing the tops of his ears.
His skin had deepened a shade, as if sun-kissed, but not from time outdoors. This was internal. Like something beneath his skin had turned on, awakened, and changed everything from the inside out.
But the real change—the dangerous one—was in his eyes.
They shimmered faintly, a silver hue threading through his irises like cracks in stained glass. A haunting glow, subtle but unmistakable.
Aemon leaned closer, breath fogging the mirror.
This… was resonance.
The world feared people like him. Called them unnatural. Dangerous. He could already hear his father's voice—firm, cold, echoing the law like scripture.
"If someone awakens, they must be reported. Immediately. No exceptions."
And Varek Kael always lived by his word.
Aemon staggered back from the sink, his heart racing. He splashed water on his face, trying to clear his head, but it didn't help. The water felt alive against his skin—every droplet electric, tingling like sparks.
He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and looked again.
Still changed.
Still wrong, by the world's standards.
He took a deep breath and turned from the mirror. The floor was a mess. Vomit crusted the tile. A trail of it led from the hallway, smeared and stained like a record of his pain. He couldn't let his father see this.
He worked quickly, furiously. Cleaned everything. Bleached the floors. Scrubbed every trace. His muscles screamed, but he didn't stop.
When it was done, the bathroom looked normal again.
But he didn't.
And he never would.
Aemon walked back to his room, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at his hands. They looked the same. Familiar. But they felt like they didn't belong to him anymore.
What was he supposed to do?
Stay? Pretend nothing happened? Let his father see the changes and be forced to make a choice?
Or leave?
His mind warred with itself.
If he stayed, his father might protect him. He might lie. Might hide him.
But that was wishful thinking.
Captain Varek Kael was loyal to the code, to the Guard, to the System. He had turned in others before—friends, even—when they awoke. "The law is the law," he'd always said.
And Aemon had seen what happened to those taken away. Stripped of their rights. Branded. Tracked. Used. Some disappeared entirely.
He couldn't let that happen to him.
Not now.
Not when something inside him was alive in a way it had never been before.
He stood and looked around the room—at the posters on the wall, the cluttered desk, the small shelf lined with old books and model skyships. His mother's blanket lay folded at the end of his bed.
Everything here was a memory. A life that had ended the moment his eyes turned silver.
He grabbed a backpack from his closet and threw it on the bed.
He didn't pack much. A few shirts, some credits from his drawer, a half-eaten pack of rations, a utility knife, a flashlight. He paused, hand hovering over the drawer with his ID tag. It would only get him caught. The biometrics would betray him the second he passed a checkpoint.
He left it.
Last, he picked up his mother's blanket and stuffed it in the bottom of the bag. It was worn, frayed at the corners, but soft. Comforting. He needed it.
Outside, the neighborhood was just waking up. He could hear birdsong, the distant hiss of a hovertram. The scent of early morning rain clung to the air.
His father wouldn't be home until noon. He had a window.
He moved down the stairs quietly, each step deliberate. The old wood creaked under his weight, but only slightly. He avoided the third step—he'd learned as a kid that it always squeaked.
At the front door, he hesitated.
One last look.
The house was dim. Still. The picture of his mother and father sat on the mantle. Her smile was just like in the vision. He reached out and touched the edge of the frame, just once.
"Goodbye," he whispered.
He opened the door and slipped outside.
The wind hit him gently, cool against his skin. The street was mostly empty—just a few early risers walking their dogs, a sanitation drone buzzing near a drain.
He kept his head low and pulled the hood of his jacket up.
He didn't know exactly where he was going. But he knew where he couldn't go: anywhere with scanners. He'd heard rumors in school, whispered beneath breaths when teachers weren't listening—of people who'd awakened and vanished into the underground. Safehouses. Refugees. Whole communities hiding beneath the city's foundations.
The Outer Levels. The Fractures. Maybe even the abandoned train lines.
Somewhere he could learn to control this thing inside him. This resonance.
Aemon kept walking. His shoes splashed through puddles. The thrum in his chest was stronger now—not painful, but constant. A reminder of what he'd become.
He glanced once over his shoulder.
No one followed.
No sirens. No hoverbikes.
Yet.
As the morning grew brighter, he disappeared deeper into the city's veins, swallowed by the alleys and stairwells and forgotten corners.
He was alone now.
But he was free.
For now.