Morning arrived without ceremony.
The city woke the way it always did—subways groaning beneath concrete veins, coffee shops exhaling steam and impatience, people flowing through intersections like predictable currents. To anyone else, it was another forgettable weekday.
To Eryan Vale, it felt staged.
He stood by the window for a long time, watching the street below. A woman waited at the pedestrian crossing, checking her phone every few seconds. A man argued quietly into a headset, his expression tight. A delivery truck idled too long before pulling away.
Nothing was wrong.
And yet—everything was.
The sensation from the Haze had not faded with distance. If anything, it lingered more clearly now, like an afterimage burned into his perception. A faint awareness beneath the noise of the world. Threads he could no longer unsee.
Eryan turned away from the window, expression calm, detached. Whatever had stirred in the Haze last night had not followed him directly—but it had marked him. He was certain of that.
He left his apartment at precisely 8:17 a.m.
The elevator ride down was uneventful, but Eryan still noted the timing. A delay of two seconds between floors. The faint flicker of the lights just before the doors opened. Coincidence, perhaps. Or perhaps not.
Outside, the city moved around him.
He walked toward the subway station, posture relaxed, pace unhurried. He did not look like someone watching the world too closely. That was intentional. Observation worked best when unnoticed.
That was when he felt it.
A brief pressure—like the air tightening around his awareness. He did not stop walking. He did not turn his head. Instead, he allowed his perception to stretch subtly, brushing against the sensation without acknowledging it directly.
Someone nearby was different.
Not overtly. Not obviously. But the rhythm of their presence was… wrong. Slightly out of sync, like a clock that ticked a fraction too slowly.
He spotted the source near the station entrance.
A man stood just outside the doors, leaning casually against the railing. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Dark coat despite the mild weather. His posture suggested idleness, but his eyes—sharp, attentive—missed nothing.
Their gazes met for less than a second.
The man smiled.
Not friendly. Not hostile. Curious.
Eryan looked away first, stepping into the station with the rest of the crowd. His pulse remained steady. His mind, however, began dissecting the encounter piece by piece.
He felt me.
That was new.
On the platform, the noise swallowed everything—announcements echoing, metal screeching, people shifting impatiently. Eryan stood near a pillar, outwardly absorbed in nothing at all.
The man from above appeared moments later, positioning himself several meters away. Close enough to observe. Far enough to seem coincidental.
They did not speak.
Minutes passed.
The train arrived, doors sliding open. People surged forward. Eryan stepped inside, taking a spot near the doors. A second later, the man entered as well, standing across from him.
Still no words.
Eryan watched the reflections in the window rather than the man himself. The way his posture never fully relaxed. The way his gaze flicked toward Eryan's reflection, then away.
An observer, Eryan concluded. Or a scout.
The train lurched into motion.
Finally, the man spoke.
"Crowded today," he said casually.
Eryan didn't answer immediately. Silence was often more revealing than words. After a pause, he replied, tone neutral.
"Is it?"
The man chuckled softly. "Guess it depends on what you're paying attention to."
Interesting phrasing.
Eryan turned his head slightly, meeting the man's gaze directly for the first time. The man's eyes were sharp—too sharp. Not unnatural, but trained. Disciplined.
"Do I know you?" Eryan asked.
"No," the man said easily. "But I was hoping that might change."
The train rattled through a tunnel, lights flickering briefly.
Eryan felt it—just for an instant. A faint disturbance in time. Not caused by him.
His expression remained calm.
"And why would that be?" he asked.
The man studied him openly now. "Because you noticed me. Most people don't."
Eryan said nothing.
After a moment, the man continued, lowering his voice slightly. "You should be careful, Eryan Vale. Some doors don't like being looked at too closely."
That was enough.
Eryan's gaze sharpened. Not with fear. With interest.
"You already know my name," he said. "That tells me more than your warning."
The man smiled again, but this time there was tension beneath it.
"Then we understand each other," he said. "For now."
The train slowed.
"This is my stop," the man added, stepping toward the doors. "We'll talk again. Sooner than you think."
Before Eryan could respond, the doors opened and the man disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by ordinary movement.
The train resumed its course.
Eryan remained still, mind already reconstructing the encounter.
A watcher. Connected to the Haze—or something parallel to it. Not hostile. Not friendly.
He closed his eyes briefly.
The Haze stirred faintly in response.
Not an intrusion. Not a pull.
A recognition.
Somewhere beneath the city, beneath the noise and concrete and routine, the hidden currents shifted again.
And Eryan Vale understood one thing with absolute clarity:
The ordinary world was no longer just a mask.
It was a battlefield.
And someone had just confirmed that he was already standing on it.