ECHOBURN

The registry building looked nothing like Aoto expected.

It was clean. Quiet. Almost serene.

White walls stretched in every direction. Potted plants sat too perfectly at the corners. The receptionist smiled too easily. It was all… too normal.

He sat with his mother on one side and his sister on the other, the temporary ID form heavy in his hands. His skin still pulsed faintly under his jacket, glowing with that faint red-gold shimmer no one else seemed to notice—except his sister, who hadn't stopped watching him since the incident.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered to him.

Aoto didn't answer. He could feel it too—how the air shifted when they walked in. How one of the workers at the front desk subtly excused himself to go into the back. How a ceiling camera tilted just a little when he entered the lobby.

His mother placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't listen to her. This is routine. You awakened. You need to be registered. It's how we protect you."

But Aoto didn't feel protected.He felt cataloged.

A door opened. A technician in a gray vest called his name.

He was led into a small glass booth. A chrome wrist-scanner extended from the wall.

"Just place your hand," the technician said, expression unreadable.

Aoto obeyed.

The machine clicked.

Then hesitated.

A long pause.

Aoto felt something inside him tense. His veins stung. Not burning. Not pain. Something else—like a coil pulled tight in his chest.

Then the scanner twitched.

The lights above flickered once.

The screen on the side blinked to life.

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Copy

Edit— SCAN COMPLETE — Blood Type: UNCLASSIFIED Status: ACTIVE Assessment Date: 31 DAYS Temporary Clearance: RED ID — LEVEL 2 NOTE: FURTHER REVIEW REQUIRED

The technician stiffened. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, then didn't. Instead, he nodded and handed Aoto a sealed envelope and a red-bordered ID card.

"Someone will be in contact. Until then… no power use. Not in public. Not in private. No exceptions."

Then he was ushered out—quickly, quietly.

Back in the car, their mother stared at the ID like she didn't know how to feel.

"A month," she said softly. "That's… unusual. But not unheard of."

She glanced back at Aoto. Forced a smile. "Maybe it's something new. A rare mutation. They'll figure it out."

Aoto just stared at the envelope in his hand.

His sister didn't speak until they were home again.

When their mother went to the kitchen to start dinner—still clinging to hope—she pulled Aoto aside in the hallway.

"Do not show that ID to anyone."

He nodded.

"I mean it."

"I got it," he said, tired.

She leaned in closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "We're being watched."

His spine stiffened.

"I saw the same car three times on the way back," she said. "Same mark on the tire. They're parked two buildings down now. They didn't follow me. They followed you."

That night, Aoto lay in his room, staring at the ceiling. The red-bordered ID sat on his desk. His hand still glowed faintly when clenched. He could hear everything: cars three streets away, cats in the alley, a faint beeping like a surveillance signal he shouldn't be able to hear.

His power wasn't loud or flashy. It was quiet. Growing. Watching back.

He turned to the sealed envelope.

The one he wasn't supposed to open.

He slit it open with the edge of a ruler.

Inside, there was no registration document. No instructions. No numbers.

Just a slip of parchment-like paper.

And one word, handwritten in old, smudged ink:

"unknown"

Aoto stared at it.

And for a moment—just a blink—he swore the handwriting moved.