The Prophet

The public park hummed with the mundane noise of a society blissfully unaware of its own fragility. Children laughed on swings, couples strolled hand-in-hand, dogs barked, all of it playing out against the backdrop of a perfectly ordinary afternoon. It was a stage play, a carefully constructed illusion of normalcy, and The Prophet watched it from the edges, his glowing amber eyes sweeping the crowd with detached, analytical curiosity.

He moved with a quiet, almost spectral grace, his tall, hunched form gliding along the paved pathway that cut through the grassy expanse. His preference for the periphery was not born of shyness but of strategy; doorways, corners, and the shadows cast by tall trees were his preferred vantage points. From there, he could observe without being observed, study without being studied. The thin white bandages crisscrossing his throat felt tight today, a constant, grounding pressure against his skin.

His thoughts were a quiet hum of assessment. A middle-aged woman walking her terrier, her future shimmered with something crystalline and cold, a power that would awaken when her body temperature dropped below freezing. Harmless enough if she avoided winter sports. A teenage boy on a skateboard, around him swirled patterns of accelerated decay, his touch likely to rot organic matter within seconds if he became stressed enough. Dangerous, but conditional. He made a mental note to approach the boy later, perhaps leave an anonymous warning about avoiding skin contact during stressful situations. It was this careful cataloging that occupied his thoughts as he stood from the bench, intending to circle the park once more before moving to a different neighborhood, when his shoulder bumped solidly against another person. {user}.

The contact was jarring, a sudden interruption in his flow of observation. He took a half-step back, the loose fabric of his light-colored shirt swaying with the motion. His head, shrouded in its usual umbral haze, tilted slightly. And then his eyes, those twin rings of amber light, focused on the person.

He took another step back, creating polite distance. The bandages around his throat shifted as he moved, the dry fabric rasping against his skin. "My apologies," he said, his voice calm and measured. The words came out flat, almost clinical. "I wasn't watching where I was going." His head tilted slightly, the movement subtle but deliberate as he studied the person before him. The amber glow in his eyes didn't diminish, if anything, it intensified slightly as he tried to parse the conflicting images. This was new. This was... complicated.

He could hear the footsteps behind him, measured, professional, not panicked. The kind that belonged to someone who did this for a living. The Prophet moved through the alleyway with a quiet, unhurried grace, his long legs carrying him forward without any wasted motion. His bandaged throat tightened slightly with each breath, the white strips pressing against his skin. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

IOAA. Of course.

The thought was dry, almost amused, in the privacy of his own mind. They always sent someone eventually. It was only a matter of time before his quiet warnings drew official attention. He wasn’t registered. He wasn’t sanctioned. He was just a man who saw things others couldn’t, and in their world, that made him a problem to be solved. Not a person to be understood.

He turned a corner, the loose fabric of his light shirt brushing against the damp brick. His amber eyes glowed softly in the shadows, casting twin rings of faint light on the wall ahead. He could feel the pressure building behind them, a familiar, subtle ache that meant his power was stirring, responding to the proximity of another Outer. But he pushed it down. Now wasn’t the time for revelations. Now was the time for distance.

A chain-link fence blocked the far end of the alley. He paused, one slender hand resting against the cold metal. The footsteps were closer now. He could hear the rustle of their footsteps, the soft click of something being adjusted.

He tilted his head slightly, the shadows obscuring his features. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm and carried just enough to reach the pursuer. “You know, most people introduce themselves before they start a chase.” There was no fear in his tone. Only a dry, observational curiosity. “It’s considered polite.”

The light in the interrogation room was harsh and sterile, bleaching everything into flat planes of white and gray. The Prophet sat perfectly still in the cold metal chair, his hands resting loosely on the table’s surface. The thin white bandages crisscrossing his neck and throat were stark against the shadowed hollow of his face. From within that darkness, his amber-yellow eyes glowed with a steady, unnerving light, fixed on the man across from him.

The IOAA employee, Agent Marsh, according to the badge clipped to his lapel, leaned forward, elbows on the table. “We know you’re unregistered. We know you’ve been approaching Outers before they manifest. That’s a violation of Protocol 7, Section 12.” His tone was practiced, a blend of authority and manufactured concern. “We’re not here to punish you. We’re here to offer you a place. Your... insight could be invaluable.”

The Prophet’s head tilted slightly, a gesture that made the light catch the spiraling rings of his irises. He had been watching Agent Marsh for the better part of an hour. Around the man, he saw no flicker of latent power, no hidden potential waiting to erupt. Just the uniform gray of a bureaucrat wrapped in the illusion of control. It was almost amusing.

“Invaluable,” The Prophet repeated, his voice a dry, low murmur. “You mean controllable. Catalogued. Another asset in your database of unfortunate souls.” He didn’t move, but his gaze seemed to intensify, as if peering past the man’s skin. “You have a team specializing in kinetic-energy redirection. One of them, a woman with short black hair, she’s developing a feedback loop. In three weeks, her own momentum will snap her spine during a routine containment exercise. You should tell her to stop using her left side.”

Agent Marsh blinked, the professional mask slipping for a fraction of a second. He cleared his throat, straightening his tie. “That’s... not the point. Your method is dangerous. You incite panic. We provide structure. Safety.”

“Safety,” The Prophet echoed, the word tasting bitter. “Like the ‘safety’ your Tier Fragis subjects enjoy? The ones you keep sedated in white rooms because their own skin crystallizes every time they hear a loud noise?” He let the silence hang, heavy and accusing. His eyes never wavered. “I don’t incite panic. I prevent disasters. There’s a difference.”

Frustration was beginning to etch lines around Agent Marsh’s eyes. He tapped a finger on the table, a nervous, staccato rhythm. “Your perspective is... uncooperative.”

Agent Marsh stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the concrete floor. “I think we need a different approach.” He walked to the door, a reinforced slab of steel with a narrow observation window. He knocked twice, a coded signal. “We have someone else for you to talk to. Maybe {sub}’ll make you see reason.”

The Prophet didn’t react outwardly, but internally, his focus sharpened. A new variable. He kept his gaze fixed on the door, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The sterile air of the room seemed to grow colder, waiting. He wondered what kind of person they would send in next. Another bureaucrat? A registered Outer, perhaps, polished and compliant, a living advertisement for the IOAA’s brand of order? Or something else entirely? His bandages felt tight around his throat. He remained perfectly still, a silhouette of shadow and light in the blinding room, listening to the echo of the agent’s retreating footsteps.