More drones drifted into view.
Sol squinted up at them from behind a rooftop vent. These weren't the matte-black military ones scouting for targets. Bright logos and stylized icons flashed on their sides—news networks, streaming platforms, media channels he recognized from the kid's memories.
Of course.
"All hunted ability users get filmed," Sol muttered under his breath. "Streamed live so everyone can watch the show."
A warning to other ability users. A spectacle for civilians. Proof that being an ability user didn't put you above the law.
Rogues.
That was what they called them.
Once the government labeled you a Rogue, your escape, capture, or death became content. Broadcasted. Replayed. Clipped, commented on, memed.
In the previous host's memories, Sol had watched those streams with his classmates at school.
Ability users running through alleys, dragged across asphalt, pinned under boots. Shackles clamped around their necks while crowds jeered. Blood on camera, blurred just enough to pass guidelines.
Some gave up and surrendered.
Some fought and died on screen.
A few stood out. One image burned sharpest.
A little girl. Small. Terrified. Sparks flickering helplessly around her hands while armored men shouted commands she didn't understand.
They shot her.
When she didn't fall fast enough, they shocked her until her body convulsed. Then they shackled her like a dog, live audience cheering in the chat.
Sol's fingers curled so tight his nails bit into his palms.
A cold, clean killing intent rose in his chest.
Then another thought followed, slower. Heavy.
Was he really just going to start killing them?
He let his gaze drift down to the enforcers on the street. Black armor. Rifles. Calm faces. Moving with the confidence of people who believed the system was on their side.
"I'm not a villain," he said quietly. "But I'm not a saint either."
If they came to hurt him, he'd hurt them back.
Eye for an eye.
Plus… if he ran and kept running, what happened to this body's family? To the starving mother and siblings the original kid had stolen for?
The boy whose life he'd taken over was gone.
But Sol was wearing his face.
"I owe him at least that much," he thought. "If I'm using his body, I protect his people."
Mercy evaporated.
These men weren't here to negotiate.
They came armed to the teeth. Authorized to kill. If he surrendered, he knew exactly where he'd wake up—if he woke at all.
On a table.
Healed just enough between cuts to keep the experiment going.
Hiding might work for a while.
Not forever.
He still had to eat. Drink. Sleep. Sunlight alone wasn't enough to keep a human body together indefinitely, not with cancer chewing away inside him and the entire system stacked against his existence.
Only by making them pay—badly—could he buy himself time.
Even if it painted a bigger target on his back, it would also carve a warning into anyone else who thought of coming.
Sol weighed it all in seconds.
His eyes went hard.
If they wanted his life, they weren't walking away unharmed. Letting them limp back, regroup, and come at him later?
He saw flashes of the research base. Subjects strapped down. Hollow eyes. Scalpels glinting.
No.
He stood.
The nearest drone's camera swivelled and locked onto him.
Ten armed enforcers on the ground began to angle toward his building.
A deep, amplified voice boomed up from the street.
"Rogue Sol, we know you're nearby. Come out now, or we will open fire."
Captain Hugo.
Sol spotted him easily—a broad-shouldered figure in black tactical gear, megaphone in one hand, rifle slung at his side. His gaze never stopped moving, scanning balconies, windows, rooflines.
They kept a careful distance of a few dozen meters from the building, a human cordon between residents and their target.
Around them, the neighborhood had already woken up.
Doors opened. People stepped onto balconies and stoops. Faces appeared at windows, wide-eyed and tense.
They saw the drones. The armor. Guns.
They knew what this was.
Fear thickened the air. Parents yanked children back from windows. Others couldn't help themselves—they watched anyway.
A few had cameras of their own, phones held up, recording in shaky hands. This was a story. A clip. A share. Something to talk about tomorrow.
Inside one cramped apartment, a middle-aged man stood by the window with his young son pressed against his side.
"A Rogue ability user?" the man murmured, squinting.
"Dad, what's going on?" the boy asked.
"Quiet," his father said. "The enforcers are catching a bad guy."
"Really? Can I watch?"
The man hesitated, then nodded.
"For now," he said. "The police will win anyway. No matter how strong a Rogue is, they can't beat guns."
He thought of all the other arrests he'd watched. They always ended the same.
Out in the streets and on screens, the same belief ruled.
This wouldn't take long.
Rogues never won.
Sometimes they surrendered and were dragged away.
Sometimes they were shot dead and zipped into a bag.
Some people watching, praying this one would give up quickly. No fight. No stray bullets through their windows.
Others, more bitter or bored, wanted the opposite.
They wanted to see the suspect resist. Wanted to see the enforcers unload. Wanted blood.
Farther away, Micheal stood in the shadow of a side street, expression tight.
If there was a way to help…
He'd tried to do something by calling the Insurgency, but even if they responded, they wouldn't appear in seconds.
By the time anyone came, it might already be over.
In his head, Micheal still saw the file description.
Sunlight absorber. Weak push ability, and an odd ability that only worked by touch.
"How's a kid like that supposed to stand up to rifles from range?" he thought, jaw clenching. "One wrong move and he's shot full of holes."
He doubted Sol could win.
He doubted Sol could even run.
On the street, Captain Hugo raised the megaphone again.
"Suspect Sol," he called, voice smooth and official, "our investigation confirms you have misused your abilities and caused fatalities. This is a serious offense."
He paused, letting the words sink in—for the crowd as much as for Sol.
"Come out now and return with us," Hugo continued. "We can still be lenient."
Up on the roof, Sol's lips parted in disbelief.
Fatalities.
Leniency.
If he hadn't seen what research bases really were—if he'd never watched Rogues vanish into black sites, never watched "leniency" translate into endless pain—maybe he would have believed it.
Now?
Going back with them would mean disappearing again. No lawyer. No trial. No name.
Just Subject Number Something on a clipboard.
"Still not coming closer, huh?" he muttered.
They stayed at that safe distance, thinking they had all the time in the world.
If he wasn't trying to save his energy—if he didn't have to ration Spatial Shift for when it really counted—he'd have started cutting them down already.
Instead, he waited.
Hugo's patience thinned.
Below, the man in black straightened, eyes flicking to the gathered residents, to the hovering media drones. Optics mattered.
"If you refuse to comply," he called, "we will use force. Do not resist, or you will bear the consequences."
The line was for the cameras.
So when the Rogue was injured or killed moments later, no one could say they hadn't "followed procedure."
They'd done it by the book.
Head tilted, Hugo spoke into the mic clipped at his collar.
"We're in position. Prepare to engage."
"Daisy, lock the target," he added.
A calm voice crackled back through his earpiece from a distant rooftop.
"Copy. Thermal scopes online. I've got multiple heat signatures. Narrowing."
The sun had dipped low. Shadows stretched. Normal sight struggled.
Thermal imaging didn't.
Around Hugo, his team began to spread, weapons held ready. Some flipped down multi-lens goggles that glowed faintly as thermal and low-light feeds kicked in.
They weren't worried.
They'd all been briefed.
Low-tier Rogue. Limited powers. Short-range attack.
As long as they stayed out of reach, this was routine. Clean-up. They were more worried about an overeager rookie squeezing off too many rounds than about getting overwhelmed.
Confident faces. Easy movements.
They crept in, entered the building as they watched Sol through their thermal goggles, wary of being ambushed.
Slowly, they approached the rooftop door.. Ten meters. Nine.
They stopped.
No closer.
A large man near the front—Brandon—pulled a tear gas canister from his belt, popped the pin, and lobbed it toward the door without hesitation.
They watched it arc through the air and land in the middle of the rooftop.
Gas would flush the suspect.
Once he staggered out coughing and half-blind, it'd be over.
Fingers tightened on triggers. Eyes narrowed, sightlines locked on doorways, windows, any angle Sol could try.
Micheal tensed in his hiding spot, muscles coiled. If there was ever a moment to try something—
On the rooftop above, Sol saw the small metal cylinder sailing in.
His eyes narrowed.
In the same heartbeat, he moved.
Space folded.
He vanished.
To Hugo's thermal scope, the hot blur that had been in the building winked out.
Then reappeared.
A few meters away.
Right beside them.
Sol materialized just off Hugo's right flank, close enough to smell the tang of gun oil and sweat on their armor.
A wide, almost cheerful grin cut across his pale face, his hand raised...
[Light Particle Experience +1]