CHAPTER 6

Rain slicked the streets as Ethan's boots pounded against the pavement, the neon lights of the city smearing into streaks of color in his peripheral vision.

He pulled his hood tighter over his head, his breath misting in the damp night air.

The chaos he'd left behind churned in his mind—the shattered walls, the smoking remnants of his desperate escape, and worst of all, the young woman whose life he'd taken.

Her face haunted him, burned into his thoughts like an open wound, this would probably haunt him for life.

The way her body had crumpled to the ground, lifeless, as if he'd torn her away from the world with a flick of his will.

It was an accident, right? He clenched his fists, his knuckles white, but no matter how tightly he gripped, he couldn't hold back the guilt swelling inside him.

Deep down he knew he hadn't wished for any of that to happen, all he had wanted was to survive, was to escape, all because his instincts told him so

He wasn't even sure why the hell he was running from being caught, it was just this feeling deep inside him that told him to do so. And see what it had caused.

Instinct.

Sometimes it felt like another voice in his head, whispering what to do, where to go, like a second consciousness guiding him—or controlling him.

And right now Ethan didn't really believe in his instincts anymore, after all they had led him to kill a person, but then again, these were the only part of him that he had right now.

He couldn't allow to lose them too, that is why he was following his instincts again and stealing some stuff and heading to the train station that he had spotted from the park.

The train station loomed ahead, the structure's industrial steel and glass edges glinting in the drizzle.

He stood at the extreme corner, hesitating at the edge of the platform, his eyes darting between the passengers and the security cameras perched overhead.

The crowd moved with an oblivious rhythm, their umbrellas bobbing as they hurried to escape the rain.

To them, he was just another shadow in the night, but he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was always watching.

The digital display above the platform flickered: Next Departure – 10:45 PM – Outbound.

He'd seen it from the park earlier, his instincts steering him toward it. But now that he was here, his gut churned with doubt.

What if this was another mistake? Another trap? He'd thought his instincts were all he had, but they'd betrayed him before, hadn't they?

Ethan's hands trembled as he adjusted his hood. He didn't remember his name, his past, or why those guys were after him.

He didn't know what they wanted from him, but he remembered___ in flashes, the moment it started—the moment his hands first glowed, and the lab alarms blared.

He was either something they'd made, or maybe something they'd tried to control. Either way, he couldn't go back.

Because in the gaps left by memory, fear and instinct had filled the void. They were the only pieces of himself he could cling to, fragments of a self he couldn't even picture.

He stared at his trembling hands, willing the faint glow to return. Nothing. Just normal, human fingers.

But he couldn't forget how it had felt, the energy pulsing through him, bending the world to his will. It had made him feel invincible.

And yet, a small voice in his mind whispered: Power like that always demands a price.

Though right now his hands felt:

Human. Normal.

Except he fucking knew they weren't. He'd seen what they could do. Felt the pulse of energy he'd unleashed.

It had felt good, hadn't it? That surge of power, even as it left destruction in its wake.

The thought made his stomach churn. He doubled over slightly, pressing his hands to his knees as the nausea rolled through him.

His mind replayed the scene again: the operatives flung like ragdolls, the walls warping, and then… her. Always her.

The train screeched into the station, the brakes hissing against the rails. Its doors slid open, releasing a wave of warm air that smelled faintly of grease and electricity.

Passengers jostled to board, their chatter filling the platform. Ethan stayed rooted in place, his feet refusing to move.

Run, his instincts urged, louder now, more insistent. But another voice, quieter and harder to ignore, whispered back: You'll only cause more harm.

He stared at the open doors, the light from the train casting long shadows onto the wet platform.

The reflection of his face in the glass doors startled him. Who are you? he thought. A killer? A victim? Or something worse?

The thought lingered as he made a decision, he stepped onto the train at the last second, the doors closing behind him with a soft chime.

Ethan slumped into a corner seat, keeping his head low. A group of passengers sat nearby, their conversation cutting through his thoughts.

"They say they're still looking for him," one of them murmured. "The guy with glowing hands. Probably dangerous."

Ethan froze, his pulse pounding in his ears. They couldn't mean him. Could they?

He stared at his hands again, wishing he could remember who he was—or at least, who he'd been before all this.

But the only thing he could feel was the faint hum in his chest, a reminder that the monster he feared might still be there, waiting.

As he leaned against the train car window, a in his pocket caught his attention.

Unfolding it, he saw a name scrawled in shaky handwriting:

Ethan Hart

P.O. Box 1234

South Los Angeles Post Office

Los Angeles, CA 90001

United States

The address was scrawled in handwriting he didn't recognize, but it was the only clue he had.

Not that he had any memory in his head, he probably didnt even know his own handwriting even if he looked at it.

Maybe that is what he should first do, know how his handwriting looks like, and see if it matches.

Anyway, all he knew was that whoever wrote it might have answers—or they might be another danger waiting for him.

Either way, he had to find out.

The train hissed to a halt, the brakes shrieking against the rails, and the faint hum of its engines filled the air.

Ethan's heart thudded in his chest as he stood near the door, his hood pulled low over his face.

The platform outside was alive with movement—people bustling in every direction, voices raised in conversation, the occasional sharp bark of a station worker directing the crowd.

The sun outside was oppressive, its heat radiating off the concrete and cutting sharply into the cool, stale air of the train car.

Ethan stepped off the train, his movements fluid but deliberate. He'd learned quickly to avoid hesitation; lingering drew eyes, and he couldn't afford attention.

The train schedule flashed again: Los Angeles—Outbound. That name meant something, even if he couldn't place it.

Maybe it was the address in his pocket. Maybe it was the only thread he had left to follow.

As he merged with the crowd, a small child tugged on his sleeve. "Mister, you dropped this!" she said, holding out a crumpled bill.

Ethan blinked, confused, before realizing she'd mistaken him for someone else. He muttered a thank-you, slipping the money into his pocket.

Her bright smile vanished as her mother hurried her away, casting a wary glance at Ethan. For a moment, he felt the ache of being seen as a threat, even by strangers.

But he didn't dwell on it because as he moved toward the station's exit, he caught sight of a man about his size walking a few feet ahead.

The man's brown jacket hung loosely over his shoulders, and a duffel bag swung at his side.

Ethan's instincts screamed at him to act, though guilt twisted in his chest even as he reached out.

His fingers brushed the strap of the bag, and the man turned slightly, his attention elsewhere.

In a swift, practiced motion, Ethan slipped the bag free and slung it over his own shoulder.

Worst of all, he didn't remember learning to move like this—quiet, invisible, taking what he needed with quick hands.

But the muscle memory was there, like a remnant of a life he couldn't recall.

The bag felt heavy, promising something useful—cash, food, maybe even a weapon.

He didn't know who the man was, but he give a damn, he couldn't afford to. Because whatever was inside, he needed it more

He didn't even look back as he heard a certain shout from behind. Probably the man realizing his bag was gone.

He had to disappear now, and fast.