His boots struck the floor with the weight of someone who had forgotten how to walk lightly.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
He stood in the doorway a moment longer, hand lingering on the knob. The hallway beyond was dim, still, like it had been holding its breath all day. The lock clicked shut behind him, a sound that used to mean peace. Now, it echoed like a warning.
He loosened his collar and hung his coat on the wall hook, the metal badge clipped to the breast catching the low light. That familiar clink, once a reminder of purpose, now felt like a chain.
"Aemon?"
The silence answered him.
He frowned. Aemon never answered right away, but there was usually something—music playing, a door creaking, the dull thud of footsteps overhead. This… this was empty.
He stepped into the living room. The air was stale. Thick. The blinds hadn't been drawn. Dust swirled in the orange glow of the fading sun.
He moved down the hall, already sensing something wrong.
Aemon's bedroom door was ajar. That wasn't unusual by itself. But the stillness around it was.
He pushed it open.
The chaos inside spoke volumes.
Drawers half-pulled from the dresser. A tangled mess of sheets kicked down the side of the bed. The closet door left wide open—and the duffel bag that was always jammed in the back was gone.
His breath caught in his chest.
No. No, this couldn't be what it looked like.
But it was.
He stepped further in. The air smelled faintly of sweat, adrenaline, and something metallic. He moved to the desk, rifling through papers and notebooks, searching for anything—any clue, any reason, any sign this was just a misunderstanding.
His fingers stopped on a crumpled piece of paper. A single line written in Aemon's handwriting.
"If I leave, I'm sorry. I don't want to become someone you're forced to hate."
His chest tightened.
He didn't move for a long time, just stared at the words. They hit harder than a fist. He read them again. And again.
The bathroom was next.
The door creaked as he pushed it open, and a wave of stench rushed out to greet him. Vomit. Blood. Stale water. Cleaning products, poorly wiped up. It hit him like a punch.
The tile floor was smeared with half-dried sick. There were handprints on the sink—bloody, frantic. A shattered dish lay in the corner. Towels were piled in the sink, soaked and crusted. The entire room screamed of pain. Panic.
And something else.
He stepped inside, breath shallow. His eyes scanned the corners, the walls.
There it was—faint and shimmering in the upper corner of the mirror.
Resonance.
A soft flicker of lingering energy clung to the surface like static caught in time. Only visible to those who'd been trained to see it.
His pulse thudded in his ears.
"No…"
He stumbled back against the doorframe, one hand gripping the side of the sink, the other curling into a fist.
It had happened. Resonance. His son had awakened.
And he'd been too blind to see it coming.
All those late nights. The tension. The quiet withdrawal. He'd assumed it was grief, or frustration. Aemon had always been a closed door with a quiet lock. But this…
He had been in pain.
Alone.
And now he was gone.
He stormed back into the bedroom, moving with purpose now. He opened the locked drawer in the nightstand where he kept his datapad. The screen lit up instantly under his fingerprint, and he accessed the local enforcer database.
Sector activity. Public incident reports. Resonant sightings.
His fingers flew.
It didn't take long. The lower sectors were crawling with energy spikes. One, in particular, had been reported just hours ago.
Sector 3. No enforcer response. Two individuals engaged. One using light manipulation. The other—unknown—but reported to have teleported.
Teleportation.
His heart sank.
Aemon.
It had to be him.
He set the datapad down slowly, closing his eyes for just a moment. Images flashed through his mind—memories.
Aemon at six years old, crying when he scraped his knees on the pavement. Aemon at ten, trying to impress his mother with a homemade birthday card. Aemon at fourteen, eyes downcast at the funeral, refusing to speak for weeks.
And now—Aemon at sixteen. Gone.
A Resonant.
And in Sector 3 of all places—a den of thieves, gangs, and lawless power.
He looked around the room, hoping—praying—for any other possibility.
But there wasn't one.
He moved like a ghost through the rest of the house, every corner echoing with memories. The shelf where Aemon's childhood books still stood. The stain on the carpet they never got out after he spilled red juice. The couch where they used to nap after long days—back when the world was simple and full of color.
He stopped by a framed photo near the door. An old one.
Aemon's mother stood in the center, arms wrapped around them both. She was the light in both their lives. And when she died—when she was taken—that light had never returned.
He hadn't known how to carry it alone.
And now he wondered if he'd ever deserved to.
He traced a finger along the frame. Dust collected on his skin.
"I should've seen it," he whispered. "I should've—"
But it was too late.
He grabbed his coat, holstered his sidearm, and clipped the datapad to his belt. His badge caught the light as he pulled the door open again, but he didn't look back.
He stood in the doorway for one final breath.
"I'm coming for you, Aemon," he murmured. "I don't care what you've become. You're still my son."
And then he was gone.
The door slammed shut behind him as he clutched the case that held his documents and hastily fastened his tie.
And the house—once a place of life and routine—was left in silence once more.
Except this time, it wasn't silence.
It was absence.
And the beginning of a hunt that would not end quietly.