Two Years Later

  Javiel moved like he’d been running from something forever.

  He didn’t creep anymore — he flowed. Quiet. Calculated. His steps left no trace. His hands were calloused from grabbing things not meant to be held: rusted scaffolding, slick drainpipes, cracked brick, fire escapes.

  He still couldn’t FLICKER on command.Not yet.But he’d learned how to move without it.

  And when it came —surging through him in panic or adrenaline —he was ready.

  He lost track of time at first. The sun felt fake. The sky stayed stuck. Days blurred.

  So he stopped counting.

  And started training.

  Every day:

  Jumping rooftops.Landing without a sound.Holding his weight between two crumbling walls until his arms went numb.Mapping routes with nothing but instinct and memory.

  He watched the people here — not to join them, but to understand them.

  When did they look up?What made them stop?What streets went dead after dark?

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  This timeline didn’t hunt him.But it didn’t trust him either.

  And it was starting to break.

  It started small.

  The same man passed the same storefront four days in a row. Same clothes. Same bag. Same pace.

  A baby cried down the street — then cried again fifteen seconds later. Same pitch. Same breath. Like a loop.

  The rec center lights blinked Morse code when no one was inside.

  Javiel began marking the oddities in chalk.Sidewalk cracks that shifted.Trees that glitched at the edges.Doors that opened even when locked.

  He didn’t know why he kept track.It just felt like a countdown.

  Physically, he changed.

  Taller now. Leaner.Defined in the way survivors are — all wiry strength and quiet tension.

  His balance sharpened. His movements grew cleaner.He didn’t move like a scared kid anymore.He moved like someone who belonged above the city — not beneath it.

  The rooftops became his world.The fire escapes, his highways.And silence became his second skin.

  And sometimes…

  Sometimes, he could feel FLICKER trying to help him.

  He didn’t trust it — not yet.

  But when his hand slipped —when the ledge cracked beneath his foot —he didn’t fall.

  The space between caught him.Held him.Placed him gently where he needed to be.

  It wasn’t control.Not yet.

  But it was a kind of respect.

  One night, he stood on a rooftop and stared at a broken billboard.

  The paint stuttered.Then reset.Then stuttered again.

  “It’s unraveling,” he said — the first words he’d spoken in weeks.

  And this time,no one disagreed.