The city did not push back right away.
That worried Elyon more than any chase ever had.
He and Rin moved through the district as night deepened, crossing streets that looked normal on the surface. Lights worked. Transports ran on time. Patrols were calm and friendly.
Too calm.
"They're building something," Rin said quietly as they paused beneath a flickering streetlamp.
Elyon nodded. "A net."
Rin glanced around. "Where?"
"Everywhere," Elyon replied.
They split up after midnight.
Not because it was safer together—but because together they were easier to measure.
Rin disappeared down a side street without looking back. Elyon turned the opposite way, hands in his pockets, head down, just another tired body moving through the dark.
The band under his sleeve pulsed faintly.
Not alert.
Listening.
Elyon ignored it.
Three blocks later, he felt it.
Not danger.
Expectation.
People were waiting for something—not consciously, but emotionally. A group stood near a closed clinic, voices low and tense. A woman sat on the steps, crying quietly. Two men argued nearby, blaming each other for something that had already happened.
Elyon slowed.
This was new.
Before, the system created accidents. Now it created pauses—moments where people stalled, hoping someone else would step in.
Hoping he would.
Elyon swallowed.
A man noticed him and pointed. "You. You were at the bridge yesterday."
Elyon froze.
Others turned.
Recognition spread—not clear, not certain, but dangerous.
"You're the one who knows things," the man said. "Something's wrong with the clinic. They shut it down. People need help."
Elyon felt the pull.
Not from the band.
From people.
He took a breath and shook his head. "I don't run the clinic."
"But you can do something," a woman said. "You always do."
That sentence landed like a weight on his chest.
The band warmed slightly.
Rin's words echoed in his mind: Let something break.
Elyon stepped back. "You need to talk to the district office."
"They don't answer," someone snapped.
"I know," Elyon said. "But waiting for me won't help you either."
Anger flared.
"So you're just like the rest?" the man demanded. "You help when it's easy and walk away when it's not?"
The city felt closer suddenly. Not watching—learning.
Elyon's hands trembled.
He raised his voice, steady but firm.
"Listen to me," he said. "I don't fix things. I don't control anything. If you wait for me, you'll wait forever."
The woman on the steps looked up, tears on her face. "Then what are we supposed to do?"
Elyon met her eyes. "The same thing you've always done. Push together."
Silence followed.
Not agreement.
But thought.
Elyon stepped away before anyone could answer.
He turned a corner and leaned against a wall, heart pounding.
This was worse than being hunted.
This was being needed.
The band pulsed.
Once.
Then again.
Sharper this time.
—SOCIAL DEPENDENCY INDEX: RISING—
Elyon clenched his jaw. "Don't."
The pulse faded.
But the message stayed.
An hour later, Rin found him near an old tram line.
"You felt it too," Rin said immediately.
Elyon nodded. "They're not pulling me anymore. They're pushing everyone else toward me."
Rin's face darkened. "That's smarter."
"And crueler," Elyon added.
They moved to higher ground, watching streets below. Elyon could see it now—the pattern forming. Small problems placed where people would notice him. Delays timed to coincide with his presence. Relief following only when he left.
A story was being written around him.
"You're becoming a signal," Rin said. "Not to the system. To people."
"That's worse," Elyon replied. "People believe signals."
A screen flickered on nearby.
A public message scrolled across it.
COMMUNITY ADVISORY:
REPORT UNUSUAL ACTIVITY TO LOCAL SUPPORT CHANNELS
Below it, a familiar image appeared.
Blurry. Incomplete.
But unmistakably Elyon.
Rin swore softly. "They didn't name you."
"They didn't have to," Elyon said.
The band stayed quiet.
This was not escalation.
This was framing.
Elyon stared at the screen.
"So this is the net," he said. "Not force. Reputation."
Rin crossed their arms. "Once people think you're the solution, refusing looks like cruelty."
"And accepting looks like control," Elyon said.
Rin nodded. "Either way, they shape you."
Elyon exhaled slowly.
"Then we change the story," he said.
They moved before dawn.
Rin spread rumors—not lies, but uncertainty. Elyon did the opposite. When people approached him, he redirected them loudly and clearly. He brought attention away from himself and toward groups, processes, numbers.
No miracles.
No secrets.
No hero moments.
Just friction.
By morning, the net trembled.
Not broken.
But stretched.
Elyon stood on a rooftop as the sun rose, watching the city wake again.
"They won't stop," Rin said beside him.
"I know," Elyon replied. "But they'll have to tighten the net."
"And tighter nets break," Rin said.
Elyon looked down at his wrist.
The band flickered weakly, like it was tired of guessing.
"That's the plan," Elyon said quietly.
Far above, systems adjusted thresholds.
Not alarms.
Not attacks.
Concern.
Because Elyon was no longer resisting the pull.
He was changing where it landed.
And the quiet net, once invisible,
was starting to show its shape.