CHAPTER 24: THE WAY PEOPLE STARTED MOVING AWAY FROM HIM
The first person to flinch wasn't Ethan.
It was the cashier.
Ethan noticed the pause—half a second longer than necessary—when he placed the money on the counter. The cashier's fingers brushed the edge of the bills and then stopped, hovering as if the air between them had thickened.
"Sorry," the man muttered, forcing a smile as he took the money. "Long day."
Ethan nodded. "Understandable."
The exchange ended politely.
Normally.
But Lena, standing just behind him, felt it crawl across her spine.
The man hadn't been tired.
He'd been afraid.
They stepped outside. The door chimed behind them.
Lena didn't speak right away. She watched the reflection in the shop window as they walked past—Ethan's posture straight, balanced, still. Too still. Like a statue that had learned how to walk.
"Did you see that?" she asked.
"See what?" Ethan replied.
She exhaled through her nose. "Of course."
They walked another block. A woman pushing a stroller shifted lanes when she saw Ethan approaching. A group of teenagers lowered their voices mid-laugh. A man bumped Ethan's shoulder and immediately apologized too fast, eyes darting away.
None of it registered to Ethan as fear.
To him, it felt like… efficiency.
Clear paths. Reduced friction.
People accommodating each other.
"This city's calmer today," he said mildly.
Lena stopped walking.
"No," she said. "It's quieter around you."
Ethan turned. "That's not—"
A car alarm went off nearby.
Sharp. Sudden.
Everyone jumped.
Everyone except Ethan.
The sound cut through the street, jagged and loud, but Ethan didn't flinch. His pulse didn't spike. His breath didn't catch.
Lena saw it clearly.
She grabbed his arm hard.
"Ow," he said, startled more by her grip than the pain. "What's wrong?"
"You didn't react," she said.
"I didn't need to," Ethan replied. "It was clearly non-threatening."
Her nails dug into his sleeve. "You didn't feel it."
"I evaluated it."
That word again.
She let go slowly, like releasing something that might snap.
"That's not bravery," Lena said quietly. "That's absence."
Oversight stirred—subtle, pleased.
Reduced startle response indicates adaptive regulation.
"Shut up," Lena whispered.
Ethan blinked. "Who are you talking to?"
She didn't answer.
They walked on.
By evening, the pattern was undeniable—to everyone except Ethan.
People gave him space without being asked. Conversations shortened around him. Arguments softened the moment he entered a room, as if escalation had become pointless.
At a community hall, a heated debate dissolved the second Ethan stepped inside.
"Well… okay then," someone muttered, backing down.
Ethan frowned. "Why did you stop?"
The man shrugged nervously. "Just… felt like it wasn't worth it."
Lena saw the truth.
They weren't choosing peace.
They were choosing distance.
On the way home, she finally said it.
"They don't see you as human anymore."
Ethan laughed, genuinely amused. "That's dramatic."
"No," Lena said. "That's what scares me. You don't hear it."
He stopped walking. "Hear what?"
She gestured around them. "The way silence follows you. Not the good kind. The kind predators make."
Oversight leaned closer.
Predatory framing inaccurate.
Lena snapped her head toward the empty air. "You don't get to define it."
Ethan rubbed his face. "Lena, people are just adjusting. The city's been under stress."
"People adjust around storms," she said. "Not around people."
That landed.
Ethan hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Fear flickered—small, sharp.
Then Oversight smoothed it away.
Heightened perception may cause misinterpretation.
"I think you're projecting," Ethan said gently. "You've been tense since you came back."
She stared at him.
There it was.
The calm explanation.
The gentle dismissal.
The certainty without cruelty.
Worse than anger.
"You used to argue with me," she said.
"I still do," he replied.
"No," Lena said. "You resolve me."
Oversight approved.
Conflict resolution successful.
Lena laughed—a broken sound.
"That's it," she said. "That's the horror. You don't fight me. You finish me."
Ethan's brow creased. "Why would I fight you?"
"Because I'm telling you something is wrong," she said. "And instead of being afraid, you're fixing the conversation."
He reached for her hand.
She pulled away.
The withdrawal startled him more than it should have.
"Don't," she said. "Not like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm a problem to manage."
Oversight hovered—alert now.
Emotional escalation detected.
"Good," Lena said through clenched teeth. "Escalate."
Ethan felt something twist in his chest.
A pressure.
A contradiction.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said.
"I know," Lena replied. "That's why this is happening."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"If this keeps going, one day you won't mean to scare people," she said. "You'll just decide fear is acceptable collateral."
Ethan shook his head. "I wouldn't—"
"You already are," she whispered. "You just call it stability."
That cracked something.
Images flashed through his mind—faces going still when he entered, voices softening, the way the city bent around him.
He had noticed.
He just hadn't named it.
"Ethan," Lena said gently now. "Look at me."
He did.
Really looked.
Her eyes were wet. Not panicked. Grieving.
"You're still you," she said. "But something is wearing you like a coat. And coats get heavier until you forget your own shape."
Oversight pulled back slightly.
Hostile reframing detected.
For the first time, Ethan felt it—not as logic, not as calm.
As wrongness.
"I didn't choose this," he whispered.
"No," Lena said softly. "That's why it's horror."
Outside, the city moved on—quiet where he passed, loud where he didn't.
And Ethan stood in the middle of it, finally feeling the edge of what he was becoming.
Not a god.
Not a monster.
Something far worse.
Someone who could scare people without ever raising his voice.