By evening, the rain had turned into a thin mist that clung to everything.
From the skybridge that linked two Central Ward towers, Aiden could see almost the whole city. On one side of the glass, the world glowed: clean streets, bright billboards, patrol drones gliding along pre‑set paths. On the far edge, the light thinned, swallowed by the maze of the lower sectors.
Two halves of the same place.
"Central Ward at golden hour," Elia said as she joined him, breath fogging the glass. "If you believe the news, this is what safety looks like."
"You asked to meet," Aiden said. "You said it was important."
"It is." She rested her elbows on the rail, looking down. "You're not the only one asking questions after last night."
He said nothing.
"Tell me what you see," she said. "Left side first."
Aiden followed her gaze.
"Agents' territory," he said. "Registered sectors. Stable grid. Patrols every hour. Fast medical response if something goes wrong."
"And on the right?" she asked.
"The lower sectors," he said. "Higher anomaly rate. Older infrastructure. Less coverage."
"In other words," Elia said, "over here—" she nodded at the shining towers "you live with magic, cameras, and rules. Over there, they live with the same magic and almost none of the safety nets."
She glanced at him.
"Did they ever show you their side at the academy?" she asked. "Not in simulations. In reality."
He thought of carefully supervised field exercises, empty training streets dressed up to look dangerous.
"No," he admitted.
"Then let's start with something simple," she said. "Two imaginary kids. Same age, same kind of power. One born here, one born there."
Aiden listened.
"Kid A," Elia said, pointing toward Central Ward. "We'll call him… Aiden."
He gave her a dry look. She ignored it.
"At ten," she continued, "he accidentally warps the family kitchen because he has a nightmare. His parents panic, but they have your father's number on a secure line. A team shows up with scanners and calm voices. They test him, explain what illusion magic is, and schedule training. He gets a structured program, carefully monitored practice, regular checks. Everyone tells him: 'You are special, but you are *safe* because we're watching.'"
That part of the story fit so closely it hurt.
"Kid B," Elia went on, nodding toward the darker sectors. "Same night, same age. He blows all the bulbs in the hallway because he's scared of the dark. His parents work two jobs each. The landlord sends a warning: 'Fix the problem or lose your unit.' Someone files an anonymous report."
She traced a small circle on the fogged glass.
"If the family trusts the Department, maybe they take him to a registration office if there is one within walking distance, if they can get time off, if they're not already on three different waiting lists. If they don't trust the Department? They hide him. They tell him to pretend nothing happened. Magic becomes a secret and a shame."
"And if his power worsens?" Aiden asked quietly.
"Then one day," Elia said, "he panics and blows out a whole block of streetlights instead of one hallway. This time, the first people he sees in uniform aren't trainers." She glanced at him. "They're you."
Aiden pictured Kael in the alley, electricity crawling over the puddles.
"So Kid A becomes an agent," Elia said. "Kid B becomes a Deviant. Same power. Same potential. Different environment. Different labels."
"Agents still have to choose," Aiden said. "We accept rules. We agree to limits."
"After you're offered them," she replied. "After someone sits you down and explains the price and the reward. Deviants are told the price first, usually at gunpoint."
She turned to face him fully.
"Let's be explicit, since you like clear lines," she said.
She held up one hand.
"Agent," she said. "Registered. Has a file, a rank, a salary. Lives in a monitored building with backups if the grid fails. When you flare by accident, you get extra training, maybe a formal warning. When you get hurt, the report calls you 'injured in the line of duty.' You're a protector.
Her other hand rose.
"Deviant," she said. "Unregistered. Has a collar number, maybe a mugshot. Lives in a building that loses power for hours, with no backup but candles. When you flare by accident, it's 'reckless endangerment.' When you get hurt, the report calls it 'force required during arrest.' You're a threat.
She lowered her hands.
"Same magic," she said softly. "Different words. Different consequences."
Aiden stared at the city.
"In reports," he said slowly, "agents are 'assets' and 'personnel.' Deviants are 'subjects' and 'anomalies.'"
"Exactly," Elia replied. "Language teaches everyone who deserves care and who deserves control."
He thought of the holding cells on Sublevel Three.
"Who calls them Deviants?" he asked. "Officially."
"Lawmakers. Department heads. Media," Elia said. "Anyone who benefits from a simple story: we keep you safe from them." She tilted her head. "But down there? In the tunnels, in crowded apartments? They call themselves other things."
"Like?" he asked.
"Neighbors," she said. "Friends. Family. 'The girl upstairs who can keep the fridge running when the grid dies.' 'The boy who makes light when it's too dark.' They don't say 'Deviant' unless they're scared a drone is listening."
Aiden swallowed.
"And agents?" he asked. "How do they talk about us?"
"Depends who you ask," Elia said. "Some say 'heroes.' Some say 'stormtroopers.' Some say 'the reason my brother disappeared.' Some say 'the only reason the street didn't collapse last winter.' Both can be true."
She gave him a long, searching look.
"Here's the real difference as the city sees it," she said. "Agents are the magic the system can predict. Deviants are the magic it can't. And people in power fear what they can't predict."
A patrol drone drifted past the bridge, its searchlight sliding over their faces before moving on.
"So in their eyes," Aiden said quietly, "Kael is more dangerous because he exists outside their lines."
"And because he reminds them the lines aren't perfect," Elia said. "Your father doesn't hate him because of what he is. He hates what Kael proves: that the system leaves people behind."
Aiden thought of the interrogation room, his father's calm voice saying nothing is wasted.
"What about me?" he asked. "What am I in their eyes?"
"Right now?" Elia smiled sadly. "A promising agent with a useful last name. Someone who makes the system look fair, because you're powerful and obedient and supposedly proof that magic can be safe when handled correctly."
"And in Kael's eyes?" Aiden asked.
"That," she said, "you'll have to ask him yourself."
-------
Later that night, Aiden stood once more outside Kael's cell on Sublevel Three.
The corridor was quiet. Only the soft hum of wards and the distant buzz of fluorescent lights filled the space.
Through the small window, he saw Kael sitting cross‑legged on the bed, back against the wall, eyes closed. The dim collar light painted a pale ring on his throat.
Aiden knocked lightly.
Kael's eyes opened at once.
"You again," he said. His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something like amusement. "I was starting to think I'd imagined you."
"I don't think I'm that interesting," Aiden said.
"You're an agent who comes down here alone on purpose," Kael replied. "That already puts you on the 'interesting' list."
Aiden stepped closer to the glass.
"I spoke with Medical," he said. "And with someone who sees both sides of the city more than most."
"Let me guess," Kael said. "They told you we're all secretly misunderstood angels."
"No," Aiden said. "They told me we're not as different as they want us to believe."
Kael's expression shifted.
"Never thought I'd hear that from one of you," he said. "Go on then. What's the big revelation?"
Aiden hesitated, then asked the question that had been turning inside his head all day.
"Who do you think counts as a Deviant?" he said. "Where you're from."
Kael snorted. "Everyone the city doesn't know what to do with," he said. "People with power in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong family. People like me. People like the kid who can't stop freezing his own breath in winter. People whose names don't look good in reports."
"And agents?" Aiden said.
Kael's gaze sharpened.
"People the city does know what to do with," he answered. "You get uniforms instead of collars. Support teams instead of raids. When you blow something up in training, it's 'necessary risk.' When I do it in a panic, it's 'proof of instability.'"
He leaned closer to the glass.
"You want a simple answer?" he asked. "Agents are the ones the system decided to claim. Deviants are the ones it decided to fear."
The words landed like a punch.
Aiden thought of Elia's two kids, of his father's map, of Rian's easy jokes about raids.
"Do you hate agents?" Aiden asked.
Kael's smile faded.
"I hate what they do to us," he said. "I hate the way they walk into our streets and act like we're already guilty. I hate that they never see the bodies we pull out of collapsed buildings because we used our 'dangerous' power to hold the walls up for another minute."
He looked down at his bound wrist.
"But I don't hate some ten‑year‑old who signed a paper because all the adults around him said it was the only way he'd be safe," he said. "I don't hate someone who was trained from day one to believe we're monsters."
Their eyes met.
"I don't hate you," Kael added quietly. "Yet."
The "yet" was honest, not a threat.
Aiden's chest ached.
"What about justice?" he asked. "What does it look like, from where you're standing?"
Kael laughed once, harsh and soft at the same time.
"Justice?" he echoed. "Here? Justice is when an agent breaks my ribs and the report says I 'resisted.' Justice is when a Deviant kid disappears and people say, 'Well, they knew the risk.'"
He tilted his head.
"Real justice would start with one simple thing," he said. "Everyone held to the same rules. Agent, Deviant, Director, kid in a broken building. Same rules. Same chances. Same consequences."
"That's not how it is now," Aiden said.
"You live in the part of the city where they pretend it is," Kael replied. "I live in the part where we can prove it isn't."
Silence settled between them.
In that silence, the difference between their lives felt huge and thin at the same time. Like a wall of glass: clear, invisible, easy to forget until you ran into it and cracked your skull.
"From your side," Aiden said slowly, "what am I?"
Kael considered the question.
"You're the one they point to when they want to prove the system works," he said. "Look, they say. A talented mage. Controlled. Loyal. Safe. See? We're not the bad ones. *They* are, the ones who refuse."
"And from your side," Aiden asked, "what are you?"
Kael's jaw tightened.
"'Warning sign,'" he said. "'Example.' 'Lesson.' 'This is what happens to people who step out of line.'"
His eyes locked on Aiden's.
"You see why it's hard for me to believe in your justice?" he asked. "In your 'protection'?"
Aiden had no easy answer.
He thought of Elia's words: power doesn't become less dangerous because you put a badge on it. He thought of his father saying the city couldn't bend for every anomaly. He thought of Kael drawing fire away from children who would never appear in any official report.
"Where I grew up," Aiden said quietly, "Deviant meant unpredictable. Dangerous. Someone we had to stop before they hurt people."
"And where I grew up," Kael answered, "agent meant unstoppable. Dangerous. Someone we had to hide from so we didn't get hurt."
They stared at each other, the two definitions hanging between them.
Same fear. Different uniforms.
"If we're both dangerous," Aiden said, "then who is actually keeping the city safe?"
"Good question," Kael murmured. "Ask them."
He nodded toward the ceiling, toward the cameras and the offices above.
"And if I don't like their answer?" Aiden asked.
Kael's mouth curved in a faint, tired smile.
"Then you'll have to decide what to be," he said. "An agent who keeps walking the line they drew for you… or something else."
The corridor felt colder suddenly.
Aiden knew one thing: the story he'd been told since childhood agents good, Deviants bad no longer fit the world he was actually seeing.
Out loud, nobody in this building would admit that.
But in this small space, with glass and wards between them, a Deviant and an agent stood facing each other and came to the same quiet conclusion:
The city's idea of justice depended less on what you did—
and more on which side of the map you were born on.