Aren didn't stop running until the city lights thinned and the roads turned to broken concrete and dirt.
When he finally did, he collapsed behind an abandoned warehouse, hands pressed into the ground, breathing like he'd been drowning. His whole body vibrated, not from exhaustion—but from leftover speed, as if the air inside him hadn't realized he'd stopped.
His ears rang.
Seen.
The word echoed louder than his heartbeat.
He rubbed his face hard, trying to wipe away the image of raised phones, wide eyes, fear. Not awe. Not gratitude.
Fear.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered to no one. "I just—"
A gust of wind cut him off.
It rolled around the building, gentle but deliberate, stirring dust and loose paper. Aren froze.
The wind didn't feel random.
It circled him.
Like it was waiting.
"Stop it," he muttered, backing away. "Just… stop."
The air stilled.
Aren laughed weakly. "I'm losing it."
He stepped out from behind the warehouse and looked up.
The sky was darker here, clearer. No neon glow. Just clouds sliding past the moon, endless and quiet.
For a moment, peace touched him.
Then his phone buzzed.
He flinched like he'd been shot.
Slowly, he pulled it from his pocket. The screen was cracked, but still alive. Notifications stacked on top of each other—messages, alerts, videos loading.
One headline burned brighter than the rest:
UNIDENTIFIED FLYING INDIVIDUAL CAPTURED ON CAMERA
His throat went dry.
Another:
"SKY MAN" SAVES DOZENS — OR CAUSES COLLAPSE?
He scrolled with shaking fingers.
Clips. Dozens of them. Grainy footage of a blur tearing through smoke. A silhouette against the clouds. The shockwave when he landed.
Comments poured beneath them.
That thing isn't human.
Government experiment.
Fake. Has to be CGI.
If he can do that, what else can he do?
Aren dropped the phone.
"So that's it," he murmured. "That's how it starts."
He remembered something his mother used to say, late at night, when the city sounded too angry to sleep.
The world doesn't fear monsters, she'd said.
It fears what it can't control.
Aren clenched his fists.
"I didn't ask for this."
The wind answered with a low, distant howl.
He turned sharply—and saw them.
Drones.
Small at first. Dots blinking red and white against the clouds. Then more. Moving in patterns. Searching.
Aren's heart slammed into his ribs.
"They're already here…?"
A voice crackled from a loudspeaker, distorted and calm.
"Unidentified individual. You are requested to remain stationary."
Requested.
Aren stepped back.
Another voice joined in. "This is for your safety."
He laughed—short and bitter.
"Liar."
The drones edged closer, humming like angry insects. Spotlights snapped on, pinning him in white heat.
For a split second, Aren considered surrendering.
Then he imagined cold rooms. Needles. Cages disguised as help.
He looked up at the sky.
"Sorry," he whispered—to his mother, to the people he'd saved, to the world that would never forgive him.
Then he ran.
The ground shattered beneath his feet as he accelerated, sound collapsing behind him into a single violent boom. Drones exploded as shockwaves ripped them apart. Aren leapt—rose—vanished into cloud.
Bullets chased him.
Missiles locked on.
But Aren Vale was already gone.
High above, in the thinning air, he slowed—hovering on trembling limbs, chest burning.
Below him, the world scrambled.
Above him, the sky remained indifferent.
And Aren realized something terrifying.
This wasn't a secret anymore.
This was a hunt