The moment he turned, something shifted.
Not the world.
Him.
Tomas didn't look back.
Not because he didn't want to—but because if he did, he might stop walking. And if he stopped, he wasn't sure he'd start again.
The city stretched ahead in broken lines of concrete and shadow, every path uncertain, every step his alone.
Then he felt them.
The threads.
Faint at first.
Then clearer.
Not pulling.
Not forcing.
Offering.
A step slightly to the right aligned itself perfectly with the ground ahead—stable, safe, almost inviting.
Tomas slowed.
"So this is how it used to be…"
His weight shifted instinctively, his body already leaning toward the path before he fully decided.
Then he stopped.
"No."
The thread flickered, as if waiting for him to correct himself.
He didn't.
"I'm not doing that again."
He stepped forward—just off the path it offered.
The difference was immediate.
The ground dipped unevenly beneath his foot, forcing him to catch himself on a jagged edge of concrete.
"…Okay," he muttered, steadying himself. "That's why people follow you."
Another thread adjusted, correcting the angle, offering a better step.
He ignored it again.
This time, he compensated on his own.
Slower.
Less certain.
But his.
The city didn't react right away.
That was the part that unsettled him.
Before, mistakes were punished instantly.
Now—
there was a delay.
Like something was watching to see what he would do next.
Tomas kept moving.
Each step slightly uneven.
Each correction earned.
The threads lingered around him.
Not guiding.
Not leaving.
Observing.
"You're not helping," he said under his breath.
One flickered in response.
Not offended.
Not reactive.
Just there.
Then the air shifted.
Not with danger.
With focus.
Tomas stopped.
"…No."
The threads around him tightened—
not to guide him away—
but to guide something else toward him.
That realization hit a second too late.
The shape dragged itself out from between collapsed structures, its form assembling as it moved—threads weaving into its limbs, struggling to hold it together.
Not stable.
But learning.
Tomas stepped back.
The threads reacted instantly, aligning the ground, offering him a clean escape.
For a moment—
he almost took it.
Then he stopped again.
"No."
The creature lunged.
Tomas moved late, barely shifting out of reach as it tore through the space where he had been. The force of it threw him off balance, his shoulder slamming into a cracked wall.
"…Okay, that's worse," he breathed.
The threads surged.
Not offering now—
insisting.
They pulled at his movement, aligning his stance, correcting his angle, trying to force him into something cleaner, safer, predictable.
All he had to do—
was let them.
Just one step.
Just one correction.
He felt his body lean into it.
Felt how easy it would be.
Then he stopped.
Hard.
"I don't care if it's easier."
The threads faltered.
The creature came again—faster now, more stable, its movement tightening as the threads fed into it.
This time, Tomas didn't step back.
He stepped in.
His hand closed around a rusted pipe lying near his feet. It wasn't balanced, wasn't ideal—but it was there.
Good enough.
The creature struck.
Tomas met it head-on.
The impact rattled through his arms as the pipe connected with its forming limb, the resistance real this time—stronger than before.
It staggered.
Not broken.
Not yet.
Tomas hit it again.
No rhythm.
No technique.
Just force.
The threads around the creature tightened, trying to stabilize it, pulling its shape back together—
But they couldn't keep up.
Because this wasn't clean.
This wasn't guided.
This wasn't predictable.
The third strike landed harder.
The structure collapsed.
The threads snapped apart—
not cut—
overwhelmed.
The creature unraveled in place, its form dissolving into loose strands that couldn't hold shape without direction.
Gone.
Tomas stood there, breathing hard, the pipe still raised slightly in his shaking hands.
"…That worked."
The threads flickered around him.
Slower now.
More cautious.
Watching.
He lowered the pipe gradually, wincing slightly as the pain in his side settled into something steady and real.
Then he looked at them.
"…You weren't helping me."
A pause.
"…You were helping it."
This time, the realization didn't feel like a guess.
It felt certain.
Because they hadn't tried to stop the creature.
They hadn't tried to protect him.
They had only tried to correct the outcome.
And he wasn't the priority.
Tomas exhaled slowly.
"…Good."
The word came easier than it should have.
Because now he understood something he didn't need memory for.
"If I survive," he said quietly, adjusting his grip,
"…it's because I did it."
The threads flickered.
Uncertain.
For the first time—
they had nothing to guide.
And nothing to follow.
And Tomas—
didn't need them to.