Time started to warp.
It wasn't something measured with a clock, but rather in the way it sat heavy on the man's chest. The moments that required his focus stretched out like wire, while the empty hours in between seemed to collapse. In that cramped, underground silence, the only markers of time were the cooling air and the muffled, distant thrum of the city moving above their heads. He realized quickly that doing nothing wasn't passive; it was an exhausting, deliberate choice.
He fell into the rhythm of the place quietly. He watched the girl, not as a guest watches a host, but as an apprentice might study a master. She moved through the space with a ghost's touch. Everything she used was returned to its spot—not with the fussiness of a neat-freak, but with the calculated precision of someone who knew that a single out-of-place object could be a death sentence.
The unwanted Clarity soaked it all up.
It didn't show him data points anymore; it showed him the why behind her movements. He saw how she manufactured stability out of thin air. He saw the risks in the way a routine became sloppy over time, and how even a tiny habit, if repeated enough, became a target. In a city built to sniff out trouble, being boring was the best armor one could wear.
He forced himself to change.
He learned when to move and when to freeze. He learned that some silences were empty, while others were loud enough to give him away. He practiced speaking less—not because his words were dangerous, but because being too precise made people look closer. And once people started looking, they started asking questions.
The girl didn't say a word about his progress, but she watched him. That was the only confirmation he needed.
When she did speak, it was rarely about the "big" things. She pointed out the small, structural cracks in the world above: the way the guard patrols shifted after the markets closed, how certain streets went quiet because the people were too tired to care, and how a rumor fueled by anger traveled twice as fast as one fueled by hope. She spoke like someone mapping a chronic illness, not a sudden fever.
He listened, weaving her street-smarts into the cold, relentless logic of his new sight. Where his mind offered the cost of an action, the girl offered the context. Together, it didn't make his choices easier—it just made them sharper. It stripped away the guesswork and replaced it with a heavy, looming sense of responsibility.
One afternoon, as a sliver of light moved across the damp stone walls, he finally broke the silence. "The search is slowing down. They're letting it breathe."
The girl looked up from a stack of old ledgers, her eyes narrow and attentive. "Yes," she said. "Which means they're waiting for the problem to trip over its own feet."
His mind hummed in agreement. The city hadn't given up; it was just being patient. The authorities were pulling back the visible nets, betting on the fact that no one can stay hidden forever without making a mistake.
"Then I'm not just a guest here," he said, the realization settling in. "I'm a ticking clock they're waiting to hear."
She set the papers aside and looked him in the eye. "Most people are. That's why the powers-that-be can afford to wait. Time is usually on their side."
The words hung in the air. He looked inward, watching the way the city's logic worked. The "system" was built on the idea that nothing truly new ever happens—that every rebel eventually gets hungry, tired, or careless. It ignored the possibility of something truly different growing in the dark.
"If we stay exactly like this," he said, his voice steady, "we're just following their script. We become predictable."
The girl gave a single, sharp nod. "Predictable is safe. Until someone decides they've seen enough."
He felt a new kind of energy stirring—not the frantic urge to run, but a sense of direction. He didn't want to burn the city down, but he didn't want to rot in its basement either. Both felt like losing.
"We need to move without leaving a trail," he said carefully. "Small shifts. Irregular times. Nothing they can turn into a pattern."
She studied him, weighing not just the plan, but the man standing in front of her. "That works for a while," she warned. "But when it stops working, the response won't be a tap on the shoulder. It'll be a sledgehammer."
He didn't flinch. He understood the risk, but understanding it didn't change the fact that he had to choose. He leaned against the heavy wooden table, grounding himself. "I'm not trying to run forever. I'm trying to make sure that when things boil over, it's because we lit the fire."
For the first time, her expression changed. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was a look of recognition. She saw that he wasn't just a victim of the ritual anymore; he was becoming a player.
"Then you're going to need to see what the city doesn't want you to see," she whispered. "Not just the gossip. You'll need to know what's driving them."
"Which means I have to go out there," he concluded.
She didn't argue. Instead, she reached for a folded piece of rough, dark fabric on a shelf. She shook it out—a simple, worn cloak, the kind of thing you'd see a thousand times a day and never remember. She handed it to him.
"Start by being forgettable," she said. "The city can't catch what it can't remember."
He took the cloak. It was light, but as he pulled it over his shoulders, he felt a shift. He wasn't a "glitch" anymore. He was just a man in a crowd. It wasn't safety—not by a long shot—but it was an opening.
He looked at her one last time. "I won't move unless I know what it's going to cost us."
"Good," she said firmly. "Because the cost is the only thing no one else is willing to look at."
Above them, the city went about its business, confident that it had the situation under control. But in the shadows beneath the streets, the first real crack was forming. The man stepped toward the exit, realizing that even the quietest pressure can eventually break a mountain—and he was finally ready to push back.