He did not choose the alley.
The alley chose him.
It was as if his feet had been directed to retreat into it before his thoughts could object. Daniel Morrow was under open streetlights one moment—then veered left as the street narrowed into an alley slick with old rain.
Shoes slapped against wet concrete, breath tearing in and out of his chest as footsteps followed behind him.
Not chaotic.
Not rushed.
Measured.
That was the first thing that told him they weren't ordinary thugs.
"An association."
The word surfaced uninvited, carrying weight with it. These people did not shout threats or chase blindly. They moved with quiet certainty, as if the conclusion had already been decided and time itself leaned in their favor.
Daniel Morrow's lungs burned as the alley stretched ahead of him, walls closing in, light thinning until the world felt tunneled.
A trash bin clipped his leg. Pain flared—sharp, sudden—enough to make him stumble.
His shoulder scraped brick. Grit bit into his skin.
Dead end.
The realization settled with an awful quiet.
He turned slowly, hands lifting without conviction. Five of them emerged from the mouth of the alley, spacing out with practiced ease. Their clothes were clean, their eyes unwavering, the look of men used to prey that didn't fight back. One adjusted his gloves. Another tilted his head, measuring distance.
"What a convenient alley to be beaten up in," one of them said, almost amused.
The words landed heavier than they should have, settling in his chest as his heart hammered, each beat echoing too loudly in his ears. He tasted iron at the back of his tongue.
Fear crept in.
Underneath it, something worse.
Anticipation.
The first punch came without warning.
"Fuc—"
The second hit cut the sound short.
It struck his ribs—sudden and ugly—driving the air out of his lungs in a dry gasp. Pain bloomed hot and immediate, flooding him before his body folded inward and his thoughts scattered into white noise.
He welcomed it.
Pain grounded him.
It trimmed everything down to something he could handle.
Another hit followed, then a kick slammed into his thigh hard enough to buckle his leg. He blocked too late—clumsy movements, human.
Someone laughed. Sharp. Brief.
Then his hand closed around a wrist.
He froze.
He hadn't decided to grab it. His fingers tightened anyway, and the contact sent pressure crawling behind his eyes. The alley wavered, vision stuttering like a skipped frame.
For a heartbeat, the man's arm existed in two places at once.
Raised.
Already broken.
His breath caught.
The world split.
"No," he muttered under his breath. "Not here."
Time overlapped—transparent layers sliding over one another, misaligned. He saw the next strike before it happened. Saw the miss before it was made. Every movement came with an echo of itself, corrected before completion.
"Not this again," he whispered.
His body moved anyway.
He twisted—the bone snapped before the motion finished, the sound arriving a fraction too late. Another man lunged and collapsed untouched, his feet tangling with a version of the ground that no longer existed.
The overlapping flows thickened.
Each step he took felt sanctioned, as if reality itself were guiding him, correcting his footing before it failed.
He didn't feel strong.
He felt observed.
A blade flashed into view, the hand holding it shaking. He turned before it reached him, already knowing it would miss. His palm struck a chest that had not yet leaned forward. The man dropped unconscious before he hit the ground.
Silence fell.
Two men lay still. One crawled away, groaning. The rest stared at him, eyes wide, breathing shallow.
One of them took a step back.
"What are you?" someone asked, voice cracking.
The question twisted something in his gut.
"Stay back, freak," another muttered.
They didn't argue.
They ran.
The layered world collapsed into one.
His knees gave out.
He dropped to the ground, palms scraping concrete as his lungs burned for air and his heart raced uncontrollably, refusing to match his breathing. Pressure spiked behind his eyes—sharp, familiar, like a blade pressed inward.
He blinked hard.
Nothing eased.
His eyes burned—not from tears, but from the absence of them, as if whatever had let him see ahead had taken something with it when it left.
"Stop," he whispered. "Why now?"
Pain detonated through his skull, precise and merciless. His vision swam. Nausea surged as he clawed at his hair, teeth clenched until his jaw ached.
"I hate when it always corrects me."
The words came out hoarse, bitter.
There was no response.
There never was.
The pain receded as abruptly as it had come, leaving him trembling in its wake. He stayed kneeling in the filth, afraid that moving too soon would invite it back.
When he finally pushed himself upright, the alley looked ordinary again.
Wet concrete.
Brick walls.
Dim light—ordinary enough to pretend nothing had happened, as if it hadn't noticed him at all.
He remained kneeling until the pain fully subsided.
The alley did not react. No tremor. No echo. No sign that anything out of the ordinary had occurred. The damp concrete beneath his palms was cold and indifferent, as if it had always been that way and always would be.
Eventually, his breathing slowed.
He pushed himself up carefully, half-expecting the pressure behind his eyes to surge again if he moved too fast. It didn't. His legs felt weak but cooperative, as if they hadn't entirely forgiven him yet.
Good enough.
He wiped his hands on his pants and started walking.
The streets outside the alley were alive in the quiet way they always were. Not crowded, not empty. People passed by without looking at him twice, each wrapped in their routines, their own deviations.
A man counted coins at a corner stall as they slipped through his fingers and reappeared in his palm. A woman walked her dog with a stiff leash, the animal lagging half a step behind her shadow instead of her body. Someone crossed the street, feet never quite touching the ground, hovering just enough to be noticeable if you stared too long.
No one stared.
Neither did he.
This was normal.
He blended in easily. He always did. Whatever had happened in the alley stayed there, folded into the cracks of the city as if it had never mattered.
The walk home felt longer than he remembered. Or maybe he was just tired. Every step weighed heavier, not from injury, but from the lingering sense that something had gone wrong in a way he couldn't explain.
His building was old—concrete walls stained by time, stairwell lights that flickered when they felt like it. He climbed slowly, listening to his own footsteps, counting them without meaning to.
Inside his room, he locked the door and leaned against it, eyes closed. The silence pressed in, thick and intimate.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No pressure.
He slid down until he was sitting on the floor.
For a while, he just breathed.
His hands were steady now. Too steady. He held them up, turning them over as if he might find something foreign there.
Cracks in the skin.
Residue.
Proof.
There was nothing.
He laughed once—short, hollow—then stopped himself before the sound could turn into something worse.
"They forced this on me," he said quietly, the words sinking into the walls. "So why am I the one paying for it?"
Someone in his family had accepted the correction completely.
The World stopped hurting them.
They stopped being themselves.
The question lingered.
He knew the answer, or at least part of it.
Because he had used it.
Because deviation demanded response.
Because the World cared more about consistency than consent.
He lay back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The faint hum of electricity ran through the walls, steady and unconcerned. Somewhere outside, a car passed. Someone laughed.
Life continued.
Whether he should be allowed to continue with it was another matter.
His chest tightened—not with pain this time, but with something heavier. A doubt that had followed him longer than the bruises ever could.
If the World corrected him every time he stepped out of line—
if it watched him when no one else did—
then what was he supposed to do?
Live carefully?
Live small?
Pretend the power didn't exist until it decided otherwise?
He closed his eyes.
The answer, whatever it was, would not come tonight.
But one thing was already clear.
The World had noticed him.
And it had opinions.