The hours bleed into each other. Daylight fades, and I don’t even notice. I skip lunch. Then dinner. Doesn’t matter. The internet is my only meal today, and it’s feeding me decades of forgotten history, law, science, politics… and everything I should know, but don’t.
Turns out, I’m twenty-eight years old.
Twenty-eight, and still fumbling around like I’m in my first week of being alive. Which, in a twisted way, I guess I am.
Also turns out, most of the world isn’t made of countries anymore. I don’t know where I got the impression that ‘countries’ even exist. Not really. It’s all City-States now, massive urban sprawls with walls like fortresses, each ruled by monarchs and highborn elites, backed by guilds, secret orders, and whatever remnants of government managed to survive the old world breaking apart.
It’s not a society.
It’s a battlefield.
Kill or be killed. Those are the rules now. Sometimes in the streets. Sometimes in the boardrooms. Sometimes with literal psychic fire tearing holes through buildings.
I’m soaking in so much data that it feels like I’ve been punched in the brain. My spine aches. My eyes feel like they’re made of sandpaper. I refresh the tab on Gavin Goodman again, just out of habit at this point, trying to see if anything new has popped up about me.
And then I see it.
A red banner. A government seal. My name.
The words “Wanted for Arrest” punch me right in the gut.
I freeze.
It’s a full-blown article: official-looking, polished, and urgent. And my photo? It’s me, alright. A grainy still from what looks like a street cam. Same jacket. Same face. Same tattoo peeking from under my collar.
I don’t blink as I read.
“The subject, Gavin Goodman, 28, is wanted in connection to the murder of Vincent Kramer, a recently awakened ESPer. The shooting occurred at approximately six o’clock yesterday evening in the Templeton East District. Witnesses say the suspect fled the scene after discharging a firearm directly into Kramer’s chest at point-blank range.”
I slowly lean back in the creaking chair.
My stomach turns.
The article goes on. Kramer was in his mid-twenties. Showed signs of belated ESP awakening. Promising future. Loved by his community. The usual heroic build-up. And apparently, I ended him. Just like that.
Shot him dead.
No context. No motive. Just boom, gone.
“The public is advised not to engage. Suspect is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. A bounty of 200,000 psis has been posted for verified information leading to his capture. All city-state border checkpoints have been alerted.”
I feel like I just ate shit.
The worst part? I don’t even know if I did it. No memory. No defense. No alibi.
And the timestamp… six o’clock this morning.
That’s after I woke up in that… house.
Which means either:
- I didn’t do it, and someone’s using my face.
- I did do it… and Crazy Gavin was still in control.
Neither of those options makes me feel any better.
“Hey!” a voice shouts across the quiet café.
It’s the tired guy behind the counter, waving a hand in my direction.
“We’re closing in five! I’m shutting everything down, so log out or lose your session!”
I nod stiffly, my eyes still locked on the bounty notice.
I feel exposed now. Every second here is a risk. Every minute I stay still is a chance someone walks in, recognizes me, and tries to cash in on that bounty.
This is bad. Really bad.
I glance around. The place is nearly empty, just a couple of night owls packing up.
I log out, shut the old terminal down, and push myself up from the creaking chair. My legs are half-asleep, and my brain’s worse. The article’s burned into my skull like an afterimage I can’t blink away.
The café feels smaller now. The air is too hot, too loud. Even the overhead lights seem like spotlights aimed straight at me.
I step out into the cold night, the door chiming mockingly behind me. The street outside is mostly quiet, save for a few late-night commuters and a city drone buzzing overhead. I pull my collar up and keep my head low.
I walk.
No destination. Just moving. City blocks blur into each other. I take two lefts. Then a right. Then another left. I loop myself around until I’m not even sure what part of the district I’m in anymore. I pass shuttered storefronts, neon signs blinking out like dying stars, and a kid tagging a wall with some resistance slogan I can’t be bothered to read.
Eventually, I duck into an alley behind a stack of rusted-out dumpsters. It smells like rot and engine oil, but it’s quiet. Secluded. No cams that I can see. No foot traffic. Just me and the rats.
I pull out my phone. The screen’s slightly cracked. Battery’s low. Doesn’t matter.
I scroll through the messages.
The number she gave me is still there.
Diane.
I verified everything earlier. Sifted through registries, genealogy networks, even some dusty PDFs from the pre-Collapse era. Her family tree checks out with mine. The Goodman bloodline. Photos. Birth records. Her name shows up linked to the Association, under Research and Development. No criminal affiliations, no red flags. Just a woman trying to work in a world falling apart.
Could it all be faked?
Sure.
But right now, I need a lifeline. Even if it’s thin. Even if it might snap.
I tap the number. Press call. Hold it to my ear.
The line rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
My heart thumps harder than it should.
Then, a click.
No voice. Just silence.
My mouth’s dry, but I speak anyway.
“Diane, I need help.”
Nothing.
A long pause stretches into eternity.
I lean against the damp brick wall, holding my breath.
Finally, her voice slices through the static. Cold. Controlled.
“…You’ve got some nerve.”
“I know,” I say. “I was an ass. I didn’t have to treat you like that.”
“You think?” she snaps. “You ask me to prove who I am, like I’m some scammer. Like I’m not your sister.”
“I didn’t know what to believe,” I say, softer. “I still don’t. But I looked you up. It checks out. You check out. And I’m sorry. For how I talked to you. I just… I didn’t know who I could trust.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Then…
“Apology not accepted.”
A beat.
“How dare you ask me to convince you that I can be trusted. I am your sister, Gavin. I’ve been waiting for years for you to come back. I don’t have ESP, I don’t have clearance to dig into the telepathic circus you’ve been running around with, but I do work for the Association. Research division. Clean hands. I won’t sell you out. I never would.”
“I believe you,” I say.
There’s more silence.
Then, I hear her exhale.
“I don’t know what kind of mess you’re in, but I’m here now. I’m listening.”
I bite my lip.
My next words feel like lead.
“I’m wanted for murder.”
A sharp gasp on the other end.
Then she yells, “Motherfucker!”
“Diane…”
“What did you do?!”
“I don’t know!” I shout back, panic cracking in my voice. “That’s the problem. I don’t remember. They say I shot someone. A newly awakened ESPer. Point-blank. This morning. But I wasn’t in control. I don’t think I was even me.”
The line buzzes with tension. I hear her mutter something under her breath. Maybe pacing.
Then, quietly: “You said this… morning?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s after your memory loss started?”
“Right after I woke up in that abandoned house.”
She goes silent again. Thinking.
“I need to get you somewhere safe,” she says finally. “Somewhere off the grid. But if the Association knows about this… if the bounty’s real… we’ve got a clock ticking.”
“I know.”
“Alright,” she says, voice tight. “Give me your location. Stay low. And don’t talk to anyone else.”
I nod even though she can’t see me.
“Okay. Sending it now.”
She sighs. “We’ll fix this. Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out.”
I want to believe that.
God, I really do.
I stay tucked into the alley, crouched in shadow behind a dented trash bin and a stack of broken crates that smell like they died last week. The cold concrete bites through my jeans. My legs are cramping. I don't move.
The phone’s still warm in my hand. Diane’s voice echoes in my head: sharp, angry, and still somehow comforting.
She said she’s sending help.
I told her where I am.
Now, all I can do is wait.
I watch condensation curl out of my mouth like ghost smoke and ask myself the dumbest question I’ve had all night.
Is 200,000 psis a lot?
I mean… objectively. Not because I want to brag. I’m not on some ego trip. But if that’s the number someone put on my head, I kind of want to know how tempting it really is. Would you kill a man for 200,000 psis? Would your neighbor? Your friend? Your sister?
I shake the thought off. Not helping.
But still… 200,000. That's no slap-on-the-wrist bounty. That’s life-changing money in most sectors. A new ID, a high-end apartment in a gated pillar district, maybe even a seat in a mid-tier guild if you play your cards right.
So yeah… I guess I’m a pretty damn tempting target.
Footsteps echo down the alley.
I tense, shifting just enough to get a look.
He’s not subtle.
Tall. Lean. Wearing a black and white suit so sharply tailored it looks like it might cut the wind around him. His dress shoes don’t make a sound, but the sheathed sword at his waist taps lightly against his thigh as he walks.
Who the hell carries a sword in 2025?
He stops about ten feet from me. Doesn’t look scared. Doesn’t look hurried. Just calm. Measured. Eyes like polished glass.
“I work for the ESPer Association,” he says flatly. “Your sister sent me. Now, come with me peacefully.”
That’s it. No badge. No smile. No “Hey, you okay?”
Just that.
I blink at him.
“…And here I was thinking Diane would pick me up herself.”
He doesn’t answer that. Just stands there like a statue someone carved out of steel and silk.
Did she give me up?
I want to say no. I have to say no. She sounded furious, yeah, but not the kind of furious that gives you up to the wolves. I can only give her the benefit of the doubt.
I slowly stand.
“Do I need to be in cuffs?” I ask, half a joke, half dead serious.
“No,” he replies. Not even a twitch of a smirk.
I brush the dust off my sleeves.
“Gavin,” I say, offering a hand. Don’t know why. Just feels like the human thing to do.
He looks at it. Then takes it.
“King.”
His grip is firm. Professional.
Great. Just what I need right now.
A sword-wielding guy named King.
We start walking. No words for a while. Just the sound of our footsteps echoing in the empty alley, King’s sword softly clinking at his side like it’s breathing in rhythm with him.
I glance sideways at him. Calm. Precise. No wasted motion.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence, “what kind of help can the Association actually offer me?”
He doesn’t look at me when he answers. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how deep the trouble is. And whether or not you’re worth the trouble.”
Charming. I chuckle under my breath. “And Diane thinks I’m worth it?”
“She’s confident you’ll be cleared.”
“That’s bold.”
“She has reasons.”
“Like?”
King finally looks my way, one brow raised. “She has an in.”
An in.
I nod slowly. “So this isn’t just a ‘hey, we believe you’ situation. She’s pulling favors.”
“Yes.”
“Someone whose words carry weight.”
He nods once.
I squint at him. “Who?”
“The Chair.”
I stop walking.
“…Chair what now?”
King pauses, turns to face me.
I sift through what little I remember about the Association. It’s all foggy, half-remembered from the terminals at the café, blurry scans of old PDFs and updated power maps.
The ESPer Association isn’t just some back-alley cult or fringe group—they’re a massive bureaucratic machine. Global. Legitimate. Mostly. They run five regions: Central, Eastern, Western, Northern, and Southern. Each one is managed by a Director. Non-ESPers, mostly. Paper-pushers with just enough authority to keep the lights on and the blood off the sidewalks.
But the Chair?
That’s different.
That’s the top of the food chain.
That’s the Chairman of the Association.
Last I read, he wasn’t even on Earth.
I squint. “Wait… the Chairman? Last time I checked, he was on Mars.”
“Fake news,” King says, without blinking.
“…Seriously?”
He keeps walking. “The Mars story was planted a decade ago. Cover for his movements. Keeps him out of the spotlight. Makes him harder to target.”
“So where is he really?”
“Wherever he needs to be.”
Vague. Frustrating. Par for the course.
But if Diane really does have access to someone like that, I’m starting to understand where her confidence comes from. She’s not just betting my life recklessly.
She’s got backup.
Big backup.
Still, I can’t shake the weight in my chest. The bounty. The dead ESPer. The memory gaps are like black holes in my mind.
Even the Chairman won’t help if the evidence says I pulled the trigger.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, feeling the cold creep back in.
“Let’s just hope he’s as powerful as his myth,” I mutter.
King doesn’t answer.
He just keeps walking.
And I follow.
We stop in front of a sleek black sedan parked at the curb. Tinted windows. Clean. Engine idling with that faint electric hum. Of course he drives something like this.
I don’t get in right away. Instead, I turn to him. Really look at him.
“Tell me about my sister.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Strange question. She’s your sister.”
“I know.” I cross my arms. “That’s why I’m asking.”
He stares at me like I just told him the sky is purple.
I take a breath.
And then I reach inward.
It’s not like flipping a switch. More like breathing through a muscle I didn’t know I had. I summon that strange, wispy energy, thin as smoke and warm as static. I imagine it curling around me like a second skin. A shimmer behind the eyes. A flare in the lungs. I let it bleed into my senses, just enough to see a little more than what’s normal.
I focus it on my eyes first.
Then my nose.
King doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.
I let my gaze drift over him, slowly.
“Chicken biryani for lunch,” I say. “Spiced. Probably from that stall on 23rd. Bit of yogurt sauce still on your collar. You missed a spot.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“You’ve been around Diane recently. Her perfume’s on you… subtle, but layered. Not the kind that lingers unless you're close. Regular proximity. Maybe intimate, maybe professional. Hard to tell. But personal, definitely.”
Still no reaction.
“But it’s the way you carry yourself,” I continue. “Nonchalant. Relaxed. Not because you don’t think I’m dangerous, but because you know what you’re capable of. That kind of confidence usually comes from training, or surviving enough fights to make training irrelevant.”
He exhales through his nose.
“You’re mid-twenties. Same age range as Diane. Probably in the same Association cohort. You trust her. She trusts you. She wouldn’t send just anyone to pick me up… not with a bounty like mine. You’re here because you’re the one she trusts most.”
I tilt my head.
“She cares about me. I believe that now. And you… judging by the expensive watch, the calm demeanor, the ambition practically dripping off you, I’d say you’re on the rise. Doing well for yourself. Young. Smart. Confident.”
I pause for effect, then smile faintly.
“And unless something’s stopping you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got romantic feelings for Diane Goodman. A non-ESPer, sure, but someone on her way to Director status. Not a bad match.”
King lets out a long sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“She was right,” he mutters. “You are an annoying person.”
I grin. “I don’t get that a lot.”
He opens the car door and nods toward the backseat. “Get in, Sherlock. Before I change my mind about the cuffs.”
I slide in, still smiling.
[Aura: 13%]
Now I’m just going wherever this ride takes me.
And hoping to hell it doesn’t crash.