Akiro woke up to the sound of breathing that wasn't his own.
It took a moment for his eyes to focus. White ceiling panels slid into place above him, interrupted by thin seams of dull light. The air smelled sterile, not quite a hospital but close enough to make his chest tighten. His body felt wrong. Not pain exactly. Something heavier, like the memory of pain waiting its turn.
He shifted slightly. His arm moved when he told it to, but there was resistance, like his muscles were pushing through water.
"You're awake."
The voice came from his left. Akiro turned his head slowly and saw Takeda seated beside the bed, jacket folded over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up. He held a tablet in one hand, its screen dark.
Akiro swallowed. His throat felt dry, but nothing burned. That almost bothered him more.
"How long?" he asked.
Takeda glanced at the tablet, then back to Akiro. "Depends on how you measure it."
Akiro frowned. "Don't do that."
A faint smile tugged at Takeda's mouth, brief and gone just as quickly. "Six hours, by standard time."
Akiro stared at the ceiling again. Six hours felt wrong. Too clean. Too empty. He tried to remember the moment after the beam struck him. The weight in his chest. The sense that something had been written down somewhere he couldn't see.
Nothing had arrived yet.
"Am I supposed to feel…" He hesitated, searching for the word. "Worse?"
Takeda leaned back in his chair. "Eventually."
Akiro turned toward him sharply, a pulse of irritation flaring. "That's not helpful."
"No," Takeda agreed. "But it's honest."
Silence stretched between them. Somewhere beyond the walls, something hummed steadily, mechanical and patient.
Akiro flexed his fingers. They obeyed without delay. He pressed his palm into the mattress, half expecting resistance, half expecting something to suddenly go wrong. Nothing did.
"So what is this place?" he asked.
"A holding facility," Takeda replied. "Low-priority. Minimal oversight. Nothing here can hurt you unless we allow it."
"That's reassuring," Akiro muttered.
Takeda didn't respond to that. Instead, he stood and walked toward the far wall. A panel slid aside at his approach, revealing a narrow window. Beyond it lay a wide chamber, empty except for a grid of faint markings etched into the floor.
"You're here," Takeda said, "because something about you doesn't fit the system."
Akiro sat up slightly, the movement slower than it should have been. "You keep saying things like that."
"Because it's still true."
Takeda tapped the glass lightly. The sound carried strangely, duller than it should have been. "Most people exist inside causality. Action, consequence. Even enhanced individuals still resolve quickly enough to be predictable."
"And I don't," Akiro said.
"You do," Takeda corrected. "Just not when you're supposed to."
Akiro considered that. The beam. The way his body had moved after it should have stopped. The quiet certainty that something was waiting.
"You said this place can't hurt me," Akiro said slowly. "What happens if… whatever's delayed decides to arrive while I'm here?"
Takeda turned to face him fully. "Then we observe."
That made Akiro laugh, short and humorless. "Figures."
Takeda watched him for a long moment, expression unreadable. "You're not under arrest. You're not a prisoner. But you are an anomaly, and anomalies are expensive to ignore."
"So what do you want from me?"
"For now?" Takeda said. "We want to see what resolves."
As if summoned by the words, a pressure bloomed in Akiro's chest.
It wasn't sudden. It unfolded slowly, like a heavy book opening inside him. His breath hitched, and a sharp heat spread along his ribs. He gripped the edge of the bed as something cracked deep within, quiet but undeniable.
There it is.
Pain followed, delayed but absolute. It surged through him in waves, not violent, but thorough, like reality catching up on unpaid debts. His vision blurred at the edges. His teeth clenched without him realizing it.
Takeda didn't move.
Akiro sucked in air, each breath harder than the last. His chest burned, muscles seizing as if remembering damage they should have felt hours ago. He doubled forward, gasping.
"How long," he managed, "does this last?"
"That depends on how much you deferred," Takeda replied calmly.
The pain peaked, then stabilized. It didn't vanish. It settled, a heavy presence lodged under his sternum.
Akiro leaned back against the pillows, drenched in cold sweat. "So I'm just… carrying it."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
Takeda paused. "Until reality finishes balancing the account."
Akiro closed his eyes. That answer felt dangerously open-ended.
After a while, the room grew quieter again. The pain didn't escalate, but it didn't fade either. It simply existed, accepted but unresolved.
"That thing back there," Akiro said, nodding weakly toward the window. "The room with the markings."
Takeda followed his gaze. "A test environment."
Akiro exhaled. "You're going to put me in there."
"Not today."
"Tomorrow?"
Takeda shrugged. "Soon."
Akiro stared at the ceiling again, pulse steady despite everything. "You said I wasn't a prisoner."
"You aren't."
"Feels like one."
Takeda stepped closer to the bed. "If you were a prisoner, we'd already be telling you what you are. What you can do. What you're allowed to become."
Akiro turned his head, meeting Takeda's eyes. "And you're not doing that because?"
"Because you'll survive longer if you figure it out yourself."
That answer sat with him longer than the pain did.
Takeda glanced at the tablet again. "There are others like you. Not the same. Not even close. But close enough that they noticed you before we did."
Akiro's brow furrowed. "Others how?"
"People who don't resolve cleanly."
That sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with pain. "Are they dangerous?"
Takeda hesitated, just a fraction of a second. "Some of them."
"And you?"
Takeda's gaze hardened. "That depends on the day."
The lights dimmed slightly, shifting into a lower, warmer tone. Akiro felt exhaustion settle into his bones, delayed but inevitable.
"One more thing," Takeda said as he turned toward the door.
Akiro forced his eyes open. "What?"
"You should understand something now, before we go any further."
Takeda stopped at the threshold. "Your power doesn't make you untouchable. It makes you temporary."
The door slid shut behind him.
Akiro lay there in the quiet, pain humming softly beneath his skin, thoughts drifting unevenly. Temporary. Pending. Unresolved.
He stared at the ceiling and wondered what would happen when everything finally arrived at once.
Somewhere deep inside, something shifted, not an action, not a consequence, but a recognition.
Reality was still watching him.
And it hadn't decided what to do yet.