At noon, we boarded a bus.
The sound of the doors closing was not loud.
It was a soft, almost careless thud.
And yet, my shoulders tightened instantly, as if my body had reacted before my mind could process what had happened.
When the bus started moving, the faint vibration crept upward from the soles of my feet. It traveled through my calves, my knees, my spine, and settled somewhere between my shoulder blades. The motion was gentle, ordinary—something most people would never consciously notice.
I noticed everything.
My eyes shifted toward the window at once, not because I wanted to look outside, but because I needed to check.
Check whether anyone had turned their head.
Check whether any gaze had paused, even briefly, on me.
No one had.
The bus wasn't crowded. A few passengers sat scattered across the seats. Someone near the front was scrolling endlessly on their phone, thumb moving in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. A man with headphones leaned against a pole, eyes closed, his breathing steady and deep. A child sat sideways on a seat, legs swinging back and forth, heels lightly tapping against the plastic.
Not a single pair of eyes lingered on me for more than a heartbeat.
I realized I had been holding my breath.
Slowly, carefully, I exhaled and straightened my back.
Outside the window, the city slid past in reverse—buildings, billboards, intersections, traffic lights. Familiar scenes, repeated so many times they had lost any sense of meaning. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was wrong.
And then it hit me.
I was heading toward a place where a lot of people would be.
And no one had stopped me.
That realization sat heavily in my chest, not as fear, but as something closer to disbelief.
The entrance to the amusement park was brighter than I remembered.
Too bright.
The colors were aggressively vivid—reds that felt too red, yellows that bordered on painful. Cartoon mascots grinned with exaggerated expressions, frozen in cheerful poses that felt almost unnatural. Music played on a loop from hidden speakers, upbeat and lively, but cheap in a way that made it impossible to ignore.
Crowds gathered at the entrance, forming winding lines that bent and twisted across the pavement. Voices overlapped endlessly—laughter, casual conversation, impatient sighs. Children shrieked with excitement, the sound sharp and unrestrained.
I stopped without realizing it.
For a brief moment, I stood there, unsure what to do with my hands, my feet, my body. The sheer density of people made my skin prickle. Not fear exactly—but awareness. A heightened sense of presence, of being surrounded.
Seven didn't rush me.
He stood beside me, posture relaxed, neither tense nor alert in any obvious way. He didn't urge me forward. He didn't tell me to hurry. His gaze drifted calmly across the crowd, as if he were checking everything—or as if he wasn't really looking at anything at all.
That alone steadied me.
After entering the park, the first thing we did was buy hot dogs.
The paper bag was warm when it was pressed into my hand, stained slightly with oil. The smell was immediate and unmistakable—grilled sausage, soft bread, ketchup. Ordinary. Almost painfully ordinary.
I took a bite and chewed slowly.
It wasn't especially good.
But I ate carefully anyway.
Not because it tasted good.
Because I was eating it inside an amusement park.
After we finished, Seven glanced up at the park map posted nearby. The board was cluttered with colorful icons and oversized lettering, each attraction competing for attention.
"What do you want to try?"
His tone was casual. Too casual. As if the question carried no weight at all.
I froze.
That simple sentence struck deeper than I expected.
It had been a long time—longer than I could clearly remember—since anyone had asked me something like that.
Not Are you allowed to go?
Not Is it dangerous?
Not Do we need to submit paperwork first?
Just—
What do you want to do?
I stared at the list of attractions, eyes moving from name to name. My mind felt strangely blank. Every option seemed unreal, like something meant for someone else.
In the end, my finger lifted and pointed upward.
The tallest one.
The roller coaster.
For a moment, I waited. I expected resistance. A warning. A pause.
Something.
But Seven only nodded.
"Let's go."
When I sat down in the roller coaster car, the seat felt harder than expected. The safety bar came down with a mechanical click, locking my body in place. The pressure across my chest and thighs made my muscles tense instinctively.
The sensation of being restrained sent a sharp jolt through me.
My first instinct was to pull against it.
I stopped myself.
I closed my eyes for half a second and inhaled slowly.
This is normal.
This is something everyone experiences.
The car lurched forward, beginning its slow ascent. The metal rails beneath us produced a dry, rhythmic clacking sound. With every meter gained, the ground below shrank. People became dots. The noise of the park blended into a distant hum.
Wind brushed against my face.
Without thinking, I opened my mouth.
The scream came out raw and unfiltered.
Not my ability.
Not a loss of control.
Just sound.
A pure, meaningless scream.
When the coaster plunged downward, it felt as if my heart had been grabbed and squeezed. My stomach dropped violently, my body lifted slightly against the restraints. I screamed louder, throat burning, lungs straining—
And nothing happened.
No shockwave.
No distortion of air.
No alarms.
The ride ended.
My legs trembled when I stood up.
As I walked toward the exit, I turned my head back without realizing it. Seven sat on a bench nearby, posture relaxed, head slightly lowered, as if he were half asleep.
He never once looked in my direction.
The feeling that settled over me was strange.
Like being completely trusted.
Or completely left alone.
I went on more rides.
Fast ones that spun violently.
Ones that dropped without warning.
Ones that flipped me upside down in total darkness.
Every time, I screamed.
Not to release anything.
But to confirm something.
That I could do this.
At one point, a memory surfaced without warning.
Before I turned thirteen.
Back then, Grandpa would sometimes ask acquaintances to take me out with their children. We never went anywhere intense. Only gentle places. Carousels. Small trains. Ferris wheels that moved slowly enough to feel safe.
Everyone knew I needed to be "careful."
After thirteen, it all stopped.
After my ability awakened, I no longer even had the right to be near places like this.
Standing in the middle of the crowd, I realized something.
I wasn't suffocating.
The last attraction I entered was the haunted house.
The lighting inside was dim, deliberately uneven. The air smelled faintly of artificial mold. Speakers crackled, sound effects blasting at awkward, poorly timed moments. Plastic props sprang out from the darkness.
A ghost face suddenly lunged close.
My fist rose automatically.
I stopped it inches away.
The staff member froze. So did I.
I stepped back and took a breath.
Nothing happened.
When I exited the haunted house, I noticed—
It wasn't as scary anymore.
Not because I was braver.
Because I understood that people were scarier than ghosts.
That night, we ate at a fast-food restaurant.
Bright lights. Clean tables. The thick smell of fried food filled the air. I ate quickly. Fatigue hit me all at once, heavy and overwhelming.
Back at the hotel, I collapsed onto the bed.
Seven sat nearby, watching television. I didn't remember the images. Only the sound.
That sound made me feel safe.
I fell asleep.
In the middle of the night, a soft click woke me.
The door.
Seven was gone.
I didn't call out.
I closed my eyes again.
That entire day—
No accidents.
No alarms.
No price.
Just one day.
And that day felt real.