The night stretched thin as Elias Varn and Rory Tate stumbled from the shed's shadow, the helicopter's roar fading into a distant thrum behind the derelict warehouses. The air was cold and heavy, laced with the metallic tang of rust and the faint promise of rain, prickling Elias's skin as he ran. His jumpsuit hung in tatters, the shoulder seam ripped wide, and his cracked glasses jostled with every step, the broken lens turning the world into a fractured kaleidoscope. The ember in his chest simmered, a restless heat that pulsed with his ragged breaths, and his sneakers skidded on wet gravel, each slip a jolt that echoed the chaos he couldn't outrun.
Rory led the way, his skateboard clutched tight, his patched hoodie flapping as he darted through a maze of rusted shipping containers. His red hair glowed faintly under a flickering streetlamp, and his ribs ached—Elias could see it in the way he winced with every sharp turn—but he didn't slow, his street-sharp instincts carving a path through West Hollow's forgotten fringes. "Keep up!" he called, his voice hoarse but steady. "We're clear—for now!"
Elias's lungs burned, his legs trembling as he followed, the shed's memory clawing at him—Dr. Voss's cold smile, her words: "You're igniting potential." The ember flared, a pang that made him stumble, and he caught himself against a container, the metal icy under his palms. "Clear?" he gasped, glasses fogging as he fought for breath. "They're never going to stop—cops, drones, her. I'm a—a freak to them."
Rory skidded to a halt, spinning to face him, his freckled face flushed with exertion. "You're not a freak, man—you're a freaking miracle. Yeah, it's nuts, but we'll deal. We've made it this far, right?" He clapped a hand on Elias's shoulder, his grip firm despite the tremor in his fingers. "C'mon, I've got one more spot—old maintenance shed by the river. No one's sniffed it out yet."
Elias nodded, too drained to argue, and trailed after Rory as they wove through the containers, the city's hum fading behind the rust and weeds. The river loomed ahead, a sluggish ribbon of black under a sky bruised with clouds, its banks littered with junk—tires, broken bottles, a rusted bicycle frame half-sunk in the mud. The shed squatted at the edge, a squat box of corrugated metal with a slanted roof and a door hanging loose, its hinges whining as Rory shoved it open.
Inside was a cramped hollow of damp wood and stale air, the floor strewn with old newspapers and a tarp that smelled faintly of oil. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, its weak light buzzing as Rory flicked it on, casting their shadows long and jagged. Elias sank onto the tarp, his knees buckling, and buried his face in his hands, the ember a dull ache beneath his ribs. "I can't do this," he whispered, voice muffled. "Voss—she knows. She's going to take me apart."
Rory dropped his skateboard, the clatter echoing, and crouched beside him, digging a crumpled water bottle from his pocket. "Here—drink. You're dehydrated and freaking out, which is a crap combo." He pressed the bottle into Elias's hands, his green eyes narrowing. "She's a creep, yeah, but she's not here now. We've got breathing room—use it."
Elias fumbled the cap off, spilling half the water down his chin as he drank, the lukewarm liquid a faint relief against the dryness in his throat. He wiped his mouth with a sleeve, glasses slipping, and stared at the tarp, Voss's words looping in his mind—"A catalyst… how far does it go?" "She's right," he said, voice trembling. "It's not just amplifying—it's waking things up. That woman in the warehouse, the green light—it's me. I'm doing this."
Rory rocked back on his heels, chewing his lip. "Okay, so you're, like, a superhero alarm clock. Waking up weirdos with glowy powers. That's not your fault—it's just… happening." He grabbed a newspaper from the floor, flipping through it absently, then froze, his eyes widening. "Whoa—check this."
He shoved the paper at Elias, a grainy headline blaring: "Hospital Hero or Hazard? Mystery Man Linked to Chaos." Below was a blurry photo—Elias, hood up, fleeing the hospital ruins, his eyes glowing faintly in the flash. The article rambled: "Witnesses report unnatural feats—strength, speed, objects moving without touch. Authorities urge caution as West Hollow reels from unexplained phenomena."
Elias's stomach dropped, the ember flaring as he crumpled the paper. "They're afraid of me," he whispered, tears pricking his eyes. "They think I'm a—a weapon or something."
Rory snatched the paper back, scanning it. "Yeah, but they're also calling you a hero. Look—'Saved dozens in hospital collapse.' That's you, man. Not just the scary stuff." He tossed it aside, grinning faintly. "You're a mess, sure, but you're our mess."
The words tugged at something in Elias, a flicker of warmth beneath the fear, but it shattered as the shed's bulb flickered, a low hum vibrating through the floor—not the bulb, but something deeper. The ember pulsed in response, sharp and sudden, and Elias's eyes glowed, casting a shimmer on Rory's face. "It's happening again," he breathed, scrambling to his feet as the hum grew, rattling the shed's walls.
Rory grabbed his skateboard, eyes darting to the floor. "That green crap?" But it wasn't green this time—a faint blue glow seeped through the cracks, pulsing like a heartbeat, and the air thickened, heavy with a static charge. The door banged open, slamming against the wall, and a figure staggered in—a man, his clothes tattered, his skin pale and streaked with dirt, his eyes blazing blue like twin stars.
Elias backed up, the ember surging, and Rory raised his skateboard, vibration humming faintly in his hands. "Another one?!" he snapped. "What are you, a magnet for freaks?"
The man swayed, clutching his head, his voice a ragged gasp. "You—he did this. The pulse—I felt it, pulling me up." He stumbled forward, the blue light flaring, and a crackle of energy arced from his fingers, scorching the tarp. "I was gone—dead, under the river—until you."
Elias's throat closed, the ember burning brighter, his eyes glowing in sync with the man's. "I didn't mean to—I don't want this!" The pulse broke free, a wave that shook the shed, and the man's light flared, arcs of blue snapping wildly, igniting a newspaper in a burst of flame.
"Chill, both of you!" Rory shouted, stomping the fire out as his vibration pulsed, rattling the bulb overhead. The man sank to his knees, the blue dimming, and stared at Elias, his face a mask of awe and exhaustion.
"You're the Beacon," he rasped. "The Shroud—it's in you. I saw it—down there, in the dark. It's calling us back." He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and clutched his chest. "They'll find you—the hunters. They know now."
Elias's knees buckled, and he sank against the wall, the ember a searing knot. "The Shroud—what is it?!" he demanded, voice breaking. "Why me?!"
The man's eyes flickered, the blue fading as he slumped forward. "The source… the spark… it's old—older than us. It waits—beneath." His breath hitched, and he collapsed, the light winking out, leaving him still on the floor.
Rory dropped his skateboard, rushing to check him. "He's out—alive, but barely." He looked up, face pale. "What the hell, Elias? Dead guy waking up? That's next-level creepy."
Elias didn't answer, his sobs choking him as the ember settled, the voice whispering: "The Shroud waits." He curled into himself, glasses fogging with tears, the man's words—"calling us back"—burning in his mind. The shed's bulb buzzed, steady now, but outside, the drones' hum returned, sharper, joined by the faint crackle of radios. The hunters were closing in, and the truth was slipping closer, a shadow he couldn't escape.