Rendben. Az alábbi fejezet lassú tempójú, sötétebb, kb. 2000 szavas, tovább építi a power systemet tapasztalati szinten,
The Sky did not speak.
That absence pressed heavier on Aren than any whisper ever had.
They walked in silence through streets that no longer felt connected to each other, as if the city had been cut into sections and rearranged incorrectly. Familiar intersections led to unfamiliar buildings. Graffiti looked newer than it should have been. Time felt uneven—stretched thin in some moments, compressed in others.
Aren felt it most clearly in his chest.
A dull, constant pressure.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Expectation.
He rubbed his sternum unconsciously. The pressure didn't fade.
"Stop doing that," Mira said without looking at him.
"What?" Aren asked.
"Checking yourself," she replied. "You'll start mistaking internal feedback for external signals."
Aren frowned. "I don't know what that means."
"You will," she said. "That's the problem."
They passed a collapsed storefront. Inside, shelves had fallen neatly, almost carefully, as if placed rather than destroyed. A mannequin lay on the floor, its plastic face cracked down the middle.
Aren flinched.
For a split second, he felt something tug at his awareness—thin, sharp, fleeting.
He stopped walking.
Mira noticed immediately. "What did you feel?"
"I don't know," he said slowly. "It wasn't the Sky."
"Good," she replied. "Then don't chase it."
"But it noticed me," Aren said. "Didn't it?"
Mira didn't answer right away.
"That depends," she said finally, "on whether you noticed back."
They took shelter in an old public library.
The building stood oddly untouched, its windows intact, its doors closed but unlocked. Inside, dust floated lazily through beams of weak light. Rows of shelves stretched into shadow, books left exactly where they had been abandoned.
Aren felt it as soon as he crossed the threshold.
The pressure in his chest shifted.
Not stronger.
More defined.
"This place remembers," he murmured.
Mira stopped. Slowly turned to face him.
"What did you just say?"
"I don't know why I said it," Aren admitted. "It just… feels like things linger here."
Mira exhaled sharply. "That's not something a Listener is supposed to notice yet."
"Yet?" Aren echoed.
She ignored that. "Sit. Don't touch anything."
He sat at a long wooden table, its surface carved with names and initials from decades past. As he rested his hands on the edge, a strange sensation crept into his fingertips—not warmth, not cold, but density.
As if the air itself had weight.
Aren pulled his hands back quickly.
The pressure pulsed in response.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
Images.
Not visions.
Impressions.
A woman crying quietly between these shelves. A man asleep with a book open on his chest. Someone whispering a promise they never kept.
Aren gasped and stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly across the floor.
Mira was at his side instantly. "What did you feel?"
"I didn't hear anything," Aren said, breathing hard. "But it felt like… aftermath. Like echoes without sound."
Mira's expression darkened.
"That's residual influence," she said. "It means the Sky has passed through here before."
"But it's not here now," Aren said.
"No," she agreed. "Which means what you're sensing is what it left behind."
The idea made Aren's stomach twist.
"So power doesn't just come from the Sky," he said slowly. "It stains things."
"Yes," Mira replied. "And people."
They weren't alone.
Aren realized it gradually—not through sound, but through imbalance. The pressure in the room shifted, tilting subtly toward the far end of the library.
Someone was there.
Not hiding.
Waiting.
Aren didn't point it out. He didn't look directly. Instinct told him that acknowledgment mattered.
Instead, he focused inward.
The pressure in his chest reacted—tightening, narrowing, becoming almost sharp.
He felt… categorized.
Measured.
"Don't engage," Mira whispered, barely moving her lips. "Whoever it is, they're contained."
Contained.
That word again.
Footsteps approached slowly, deliberately.
A figure emerged between the shelves.
A boy.
Around Aren's age. Slightly taller. Dark coat, hood down. His face was pale, eyes shadowed, but calm—too calm. Like someone who had already decided something irreversible.
He stopped several meters away.
"I knew you'd come here," he said quietly.
His voice didn't echo.
Aren felt that as wrong immediately.
Mira stepped forward. "You shouldn't be here."
The boy smiled faintly. "Neither should he."
His eyes flicked to Aren.
The pressure spiked.
Aren staggered, clutching his chest.
"What are you?" Aren demanded.
The boy tilted his head. "That's a rude question."
Mira's jaw tightened. "What category are you?"
The boy's smile widened just slightly.
"Functional," he replied.
Aren didn't like that answer.
"You're not a Listener," Aren said slowly. "You're not holding, either."
The boy's eyes sharpened. "Careful."
"But you're not leaking," Aren continued, surprised by his own certainty. "You're… directing."
Silence stretched.
The boy laughed softly. "You're learning faster than you should."
Mira glanced sharply at Aren. "You felt that?"
"Yes," Aren said. "When he talks, the pressure changes shape."
The boy nodded approvingly. "That's because I don't wait for the Sky to speak."
Aren felt cold spread through his limbs.
"You use it," Aren whispered.
The boy didn't deny it.
They didn't fight.
That disturbed Aren more than anything else.
The boy simply stepped back, retreating into the shelves.
"Next time," he said calmly, "don't stay still for so long. You attract attention."
"And you don't?" Aren shot back.
The boy paused.
"I already paid for mine," he said.
Then he was gone.
No sound.
No ripple.
Just absence layered over absence.
Aren sank back into his chair, shaking.
"That wasn't supposed to happen yet," he said weakly.
Mira stared at the space where the boy had stood.
"No," she agreed. "It wasn't."
Aren swallowed. "So that's the system."
She nodded slowly.
"Listening creates awareness," she said. "Holding creates pressure. Using creates change."
"And the cost?" Aren asked.
Mira met his eyes.
"Survival," she said quietly, "is borrowed time."
Aren looked down at his hands.
They felt heavier than before.
Not because of power.
But because he could feel the weight of every choice pressing closer.
The Sky still did not speak.
And somehow, that felt like a promise…