The sound of footsteps. Too many of them. An unrelenting buzz, pressing into my skull like a migraine that won’t let go. I should be used to it by now—years of hearing the noise and filtering through the rush of thoughts from people who don’t even realize they’re broadcasting every impulse, fear, and hidden fantasy. But today? Today, it’s different. The footsteps—they’re louder. Heavier. Like they’re trampling over every nerve I’ve got left.

I stay in the alley longer than I should, leaning against the wet brick wall, breathing in the musty air. It smells like trash, rotting food, and piss. But it’s quiet. Blessedly quiet. It’s enough to think. Or, at least, I try to convince myself of that. My temples throb in rhythm with my pulse, and the thoughts I’m not hearing feel more ominous than the noise itself.

After a while, I push myself off the wall. It’s not like I can hide here forever. I’ve got to get back out there. I’ve got to figure out what the hell is happening to me. The silence wraps around me like a noose as I enter the crowded street. People move around me in waves, bodies flowing together, all part of the same chaotic stream of humanity.

And then I notice it.

Nothing.

No mental noise, no static hum of desires, fears, or mundane daydreams. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere. The silence feels wrong, like standing in the middle of an orchestra pit and realizing no one’s playing. I try again, reaching out to dip into a mind—any mind—but it’s like grasping for smoke. There’s nothing to hold on to.

I focus on the woman across the street, her face hidden by the shadow of her wide-brimmed hat. My mind stretches, searching for hers, trying to slip in like I’ve done a thousand times before. But instead of that familiar, easy entry—like fitting a key into a lock—there’s resistance. Thick and heavy, like trying to force my way through wet cement. I can feel her thoughts, but they’re distant, like a faint echo bouncing off a wall I can’t see.

I push harder, gritting my teeth against the pressure building in my skull. Slowly, agonizingly, I break through. Her thoughts rush in all at once, fragmented and fuzzy.

Don’t look up. Just keep walking. They’re watching. Always watching.

A jolt of icy panic runs through me. Her thoughts are slow and disjointed, but there’s fear in them. And worse, something else—an awareness. They’re watching. Who? Who the hell is watching?

I pull back, my pulse quickening. I don’t usually get rattled, not by something like this, but this isn’t normal. This isn’t supposed to happen. I control them. I always control them.

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I need to think. I need answers. Fast.

The door to my apartment slams shut behind me. My hands are shaking as I lock it. Three bolts. I slide the chain across. I don’t know who I’m afraid of, but I can’t stop the tension coiling in my gut. My head feels like it’s splitting in two, the ache pounding with every heartbeat.

I collapse onto the edge of the bed, rubbing at my temples, trying to force the pressure away. It's not just the headache. It's everything. The silence, the resistance—people pushing back. That's not supposed to happen. I’ve spent years perfecting this, mastering the subtle art of dipping into people’s heads, sliding past their defenses like a shadow. But today… today it felt like walking into a room full of locked doors.

My phone buzzes, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glance at the screen. Missed calls, five of them. And now a text:

Jonah. We need to talk. Don’t ignore this.

I frown at the message. No name attached, but I don’t need one. Marcus. The only other person who knows what I can do. Or at least, knew. It’s been months since we last spoke, maybe longer. I don’t know where he’s been, and frankly, I don’t care. He’s bad news. Always has been.

I delete the message and toss the phone onto the bed. Marcus can wait. He’s probably still chasing the same wild ideas, trying to build some kind of power structure with his abilities. I’m not interested in whatever game he’s playing.

But as the seconds tick by, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe I should care. The barista’s words keep echoing in my mind: They’re watching. They’re watching.

Who’s watching? And why do people seem to know something I don’t?

I need answers. And Marcus might be the only person with any. My hands feel heavy as I pick up the phone again, scrolling through the contacts until I find his number. My finger hovers over the screen, indecision gnawing at me.

Screw it.

I hit call.

The line clicks after two rings, and Marcus’s voice comes through, low and smooth, like he’s been expecting this.

"Jonah," he says. "I was wondering when you’d wake up."

"Cut the crap, Marcus. What’s going on?" I don’t have the patience for games right now, not with my head pounding and my nerves shot.

He chuckles, and the sound crawls under my skin. “Oh, Jonah, you have no idea, do you?”

"I don’t have time for your riddles. Just tell me what’s happening."

There’s a pause on the other end, a moment of silence that stretches just a bit too long. I can hear him breathing, slow and controlled.

"You’re not the only one, Jonah,” he says finally, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You’re not the only one who can do it. You never were."

My stomach drops. The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense.

"What are you talking about?" My voice is tight, strained.

Marcus’s laugh is softer this time, almost amused. "You think you’re special, Jonah? You think you’re the only one with a gift? You’ve been playing in the shallow end of the pool, my friend. There’s a whole world out there you don’t know about. But trust me—they do.”

My breath catches in my throat. "They? Who the hell is ‘they’?"

He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, the humor is gone from his voice, replaced by something colder. Darker.

"The ones who are watching. And they’re coming for you."

The line goes dead.