The warehouse loomed over Elias Varn like a relic of a forgotten age, its rusted walls streaked with peeling paint and its broken windows gaping like hollow eyes. The night air bit at his skin, sharp with the tang of damp metal and the faint rot of decaying wood, as he followed Rory across the cracked pavement. His sneakers crunched on gravel, each step a jolt that echoed the ache in his chest—the ember still smoldering, a restless heat that pulsed with every ragged breath. His glasses hung crooked, the cracked lens blurring the shadows into a jagged haze, and his jumpsuit clung to him, heavy with sweat and the grime of the chase.
Rory moved ahead, his skateboard tucked under one arm, his patched hoodie swaying as he scanned the darkness. The hum of drones lingered in the distance, a faint buzz that prickled Elias's nerves, but the warehouse offered a shield—its bulk cutting off the city's glow, leaving them in a pocket of shadow beneath a sky streaked with clouds. "In here," Rory whispered, nodding toward a side door half-off its hinges, its frame warped by years of neglect. "Nobody's poked around this place since the mill shut down. We're good—for now."
Elias hesitated, the door's black maw swallowing the faint light from a flickering streetlamp. "For now" wasn't enough—not with the police, the drones, the voice in his head—but his legs trembled, exhaustion dragging at his bones. He nodded, a jerky twitch, and followed Rory inside, the hinges groaning as they slipped through.
The interior was a cavern of dust and echoes, the air thick with the musk of mold and the metallic bite of rust. Faint moonlight filtered through the broken windows, casting slivers of silver across a floor littered with splintered crates and tangled wire. Massive beams loomed overhead, their shadows stretching like skeletal fingers, and a rusted conveyor belt snaked through the space, frozen mid-motion from a time when West Hollow still hummed with industry. Elias's breath fogged in the chill, his glasses clouding again, and he wiped them on his sleeve, the world sharpening into a grim tableau.
Rory dropped his skateboard, the clatter reverberating off the walls, and flopped onto a crate, kicking his legs out. "Welcome to Casa de Tate," he said, his grin faint but stubborn. "Not much, but it's got walls and a roof. Beats dodging tasers." He dug into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of gum, and offered a stick to Elias. "You look like you need something to chew on—literally."
Elias shook his head, hovering near the door, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "I'm fine," he lied, his voice a hoarse rasp. The ember flared, a pang that made him wince, and he pressed a hand to his chest, as if he could push it back down. The police's words—"possible power manifestation"—looped in his mind, each repetition tightening the knot of dread in his gut. "They think I'm a threat. The cops, the news—everyone. I'm not—I'm just me."
Rory popped the gum into his mouth, chewing loudly as he leaned back. "Yeah, well, 'just you' is apparently a big deal. That vibe thing you gave me? Knocked that cop on his ass. They're not wrong to be freaked—I'm freaked, and I'm on your side." He paused, his grin softening. "You're not a threat, though. You're just… messy."
"Messy," Elias echoed, a bitter laugh escaping him. He sank onto a crate opposite Rory, the wood creaking under his weight, and buried his face in his hands. "I don't want to be messy. I don't want to be anything. I just want to go back—before the hospital, before all this." His glasses slipped, and he didn't bother fixing them, letting the tears blur his vision. "I'm not a hero. I'm not even brave."
Rory chewed in silence for a moment, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You keep saying that, but you're still here. Running, yeah, but not ditching me—or anyone else you've sparked up. That's something, man. Brave's not always punching bad guys. Sometimes it's just… not giving up."
The words hung there, simple but piercing, and Elias's throat tightened. He wanted to argue—to scream that Rory didn't get it, that the ember wasn't a gift but a chain—but a rustle broke the quiet, faint but deliberate, from the warehouse's far end. Rory tensed, his gum-chewing stopping mid-motion, and Elias's head snapped up, the ember flaring with a heat that made his pulse race.
"Who's there?" Rory called, sliding off the crate and grabbing his skateboard like a weapon. His voice echoed, bouncing off the beams, and the rustle grew—a shuffle of footsteps, slow and measured, emerging from the shadows.
A figure stepped into the moonlight, tall and lean, cloaked in a tattered coat that hung like a shroud. Their face was obscured by a hood, but their hands—pale and scarred—clutched a staff of twisted metal, its tip glowing faintly with a sickly green light. Elias's breath caught, the ember surging, and his eyes shimmered, casting a faint glow that lit the stranger's silhouette. "Stay back!" he stammered, scrambling to his feet, his glasses tumbling to the floor.
The figure paused, tilting their head as if studying him. "You're him," they said, their voice a low rasp, genderless and rough, like wind over broken glass. "The one they're calling The Beacon. I felt your pulse—miles away, in the dark. It woke something in me." They raised a hand, and the green light flared, a pulse of their own rippling outward, weaker but sharp, rattling the crates around them.
Rory stepped forward, skateboard raised. "Back off, creep! We don't want trouble!"
"No trouble," the stranger said, lowering their hand. The light dimmed, but their presence pressed against the air, heavy and strange. "I'm not here to fight. I'm here because of him." They nodded toward Elias, who shrank back, the ember burning hotter, his eyes glowing brighter.
"Me?" Elias's voice cracked, panic clawing up his spine. "I don't know you—I don't know what you're talking about!"
"You don't have to," the stranger said, stepping closer. Moonlight caught their face for a fleeting second—pale skin, hollow cheeks, eyes sunken but glinting with that same green. "Your power—it's not yours alone. It's a call, a signal. Others like me, we feel it. We're waking up because of you."
Elias's stomach dropped, the voice in his head stirring: "They will seek you." He flinched, clutching his chest as the ember pulsed, a wave threatening to break free. "No—no, I didn't call anyone! I don't want this!"
The stranger's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "Want's got nothing to do with it. It's what you are. A spark in the dark, lighting fires you can't see." They tapped their staff against the floor, the green light flaring again, and a faint hum vibrated through the warehouse, stirring dust into swirling patterns. "I was nothing—dying in a gutter—until your pulse hit me. Now I'm… this."
Rory edged closer to Elias, his skateboard still raised. "Okay, cryptic much? You're saying he turned you into—whatever you are? 'Cause that's not how it works—he's not handing out powers like candy!"
"Isn't he?" The stranger's eyes flicked to Rory, then back to Elias. "You felt it, didn't you? The hum, the sparks. He's not just amplifying—he's igniting. And he's not done."
Elias shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "Stop it! I don't want to ignite anything—I just want it to stop!" The ember erupted, a pulse surging outward, and the warehouse trembled. Crates rattled, the conveyor belt groaned, and the stranger staggered, their staff flaring brighter as they braced against it. Rory's hands glowed again, the vibration returning, and he stumbled, cursing as the floor shook beneath him.
"Elias, chill!" Rory shouted, dropping the skateboard as the hum pulsed through him. "You're gonna bring this place down!"
The stranger straightened, their hood slipping back to reveal a tangle of gray hair and those eerie green eyes. "You can't stop it," they said, voice steady despite the chaos. "It's bigger than you—bigger than any of us. They're coming, Beacon. The ones who feel you, the ones who hunt you. You're the key."
The pulse faded, leaving Elias gasping, his eyes dimming as he sank to his knees. The stranger watched, silent, then turned toward the shadows, their staff's light winking out. "Find me when you're ready," they rasped, vanishing into the dark as if swallowed by it.
Rory rushed to Elias's side, the vibration gone from his hands. "You okay? What the hell was that?"
Elias didn't answer, his sobs echoing in the quiet. The ember settled, a dull ache, but the stranger's words burned brighter—igniting, a key, they're coming. The voice whispered again, cold and certain: "You cannot hide forever." Outside, the drones' hum grew louder, and the warehouse walls seemed to close in, a trap he couldn't escape.