The apartment was quiet again.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet.
The kind that made small sounds feel louder than they should.
Larius stood in the kitchen, staring at the stove like it had personally offended him.
A pan sat on it, empty. The burner was off. His hand rested on the counter beside it, fingers slightly curled, like he had been about to do something and forgot what it was halfway through.
"…Right," he muttered.
Food.
That was what he had been doing.
He glanced at the counter. A carton of eggs. Bread. A knife. A cutting board that already had faint marks across its surface from previous use.
He didn't remember using it.
That didn't matter.
He picked up an egg.
It felt normal. Smooth. Slightly cool.
He cracked it against the edge of the pan.
For a split second—
The sound stretched.
The shell breaking didn't happen all at once. It dragged, like a frame had been pulled longer than it should have.
Then it snapped back.
The egg dropped into the pan.
He froze.
"…Did that—"
He stopped.
No.
The pan was normal. The egg was normal. Everything was where it should be.
He turned the burner on.
The faint click-click-click of ignition filled the space, followed by the low bloom of flame.
Normal.
That word again.
He exhaled slowly and reached for another egg.
This time, nothing stretched.
Nothing lagged.
It cracked cleanly.
He let himself relax a fraction.
The radio turned on by accident.
At least, he didn't remember turning it on.
One moment it was silent, the next it was speaking.
"…—earlier this morning, an officer was injured during a response call in—"
Larius didn't react immediately.
He flipped the egg once, watching the edge crisp slightly.
The voice continued in the background, steady, professional.
"…suspect reportedly armed… situation contained… officer transported… currently in stable condition…"
His hand paused.
Just slightly.
He didn't look at the radio.
"…expected to make a full recovery—"
The spatula slipped under the egg again.
He flipped it too hard this time. The yolk broke.
Yellow spread across the pan.
He stared at it.
Something tightened in his chest.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
More like… recognition without context.
"…what happened?"
The thought came late.
Too late.
He turned the stove off.
The eggs didn't matter anymore.
The radio kept talking. Details now. Location. Time. Statements.
He didn't move to turn it off.
Instead, he leaned both hands on the counter.
"Stable condition," he repeated quietly.
That should have been reassuring.
It was supposed to be.
So why—
His mind filled in something he hadn't asked for.
Not an image.
Not clearly.
Just… understanding.
Impact.
Angle.
Force.
Where it would hurt most.
Where it wouldn't.
Where blood would—
He flinched.
Hard.
The thought cut off mid-process.
His fingers tightened against the counter.
"No," he said under his breath. "No, don't—"
His head pulsed.
Not sharp.
Not yet.
Just a warning.
Like pressure building behind a wall.
He stepped back from the stove.
The pan hissed softly as the heat faded.
The radio voice continued, now moving on to something else. Traffic, maybe. Weather.
He reached over and turned it off.
Silence dropped into the room again.
It felt heavier this time.
He grabbed a plate and slid the ruined eggs onto it without looking.
Sat at the table.
Took a bite.
Didn't taste anything.
His mind was stuck on the word.
Officer.
Not a person.
Not a face.
Just the role.
Just the function.
And yet—
His chest tightened again.
He set the fork down.
"People get hurt doing that," he said quietly.
Obvious.
Simple.
He knew that.
Everyone knew that.
So why did it feel like something new?
His arm tingled.
He looked down.
Nothing there.
No cut. No bruise.
Still—
The sensation lingered.
Not pain.
Not even discomfort.
Just… expectation.
Like his body was waiting for something that hadn't happened.
He rubbed the spot once.
It didn't help.
"…stop," he muttered.
To himself.
To his body.
To whatever was doing that.
He stood up too quickly.
The chair scraped back.
The sound felt too loud.
"I'm not—" He exhaled sharply. "I'm not doing this."
Doing what?
He didn't finish the thought.
Didn't want to.
He went to the sink, ran cold water over his hands.
The temperature grounded him.
Real.
Immediate.
He focused on that.
Water. Skin. Pressure.
Not—
Anything else.
It worked.
A little.
The problem was, the thought didn't go away.
It just… waited.
He dried his hands slowly.
Walked back to the table.
Sat down again.
The eggs were still there.
He didn't touch them.
"LAPD," he said under his breath.
Testing it.
His head tightened.
Not pain.
Not yet.
But close.
He pressed his fingers lightly to his temple.
"Okay," he whispered. "Still not friendly."
He leaned back in the chair.
Stared at the ceiling.
The crack hadn't moved.
That was something.
"People get hurt doing that job," he said again.
This time, his mind didn't stay abstract.
It didn't stay distant.
It… filled in.
Too easily.
Too cleanly.
A movement.
A mistake.
A second too slow.
Or too fast.
He inhaled sharply.
His fingers dug into the armrest.
"I don't need that," he said. "I don't—"
His voice cut off.
Because another thought followed immediately.
Uninvited.
Uncomfortable.
Persistent.
Then why does it matter?
He froze.
"…what?"
The question didn't feel like his.
Not entirely.
It didn't sound like a voice.
Just a direction his thoughts took.
Without asking.
"If it doesn't matter," he said slowly, "then why does it keep coming back?"
No answer.
He laughed once.
Dry.
"Great," he muttered. "Arguing with myself now."
He stood up again.
Couldn't sit still.
The apartment felt smaller than it had earlier.
The walls hadn't moved.
But something had.
He paced once across the room.
Twice.
Stopped by the counter.
The knife was still there.
On the cutting board.
Exactly where he left it.
He looked at it.
Just a knife.
Kitchen knife.
Nothing special.
For a fraction of a second—
He saw the angle wrong.
Not visually.
Not fully.
Just… a misalignment.
Like his brain predicted where it would go if it slipped.
Where it would land.
Where it would—
He turned away immediately.
"Okay," he said, sharper now. "No."
His heart rate had picked up.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to notice.
He inhaled.
Held it.
Exhaled.
Again.
Slower.
He tried to remember the steps.
The grounding exercise from yesterday.
Five things.
Four.
Three.
He went through them.
Objects.
Textures.
Sounds.
Smells.
Taste.
By the time he finished, the edge had dulled.
Not gone.
But manageable.
"Good," he said quietly.
Like he was reassuring someone else.
He leaned against the counter again.
Closed his eyes for a second.
The moment he did—
There it was again.
Not a memory.
Not exactly.
A process.
Fast.
Too fast.
He saw—
No.
He understood—
No.
He anticipated—
He opened his eyes immediately.
Breath catching.
"That's new," he whispered.
He stayed still for a long moment.
Listening.
Nothing.
No external trigger.
No sound.
No reason.
And yet—
Something had tried to run ahead of him.
"…I don't like that."
He moved away from the counter.
Back to the table.
Sat down.
Opened the laptop.
The screen lit up.
Normal.
Predictable.
Safe.
He opened the browser.
Didn't type anything yet.
Just stared at the search bar.
"Okay," he said. "Let's… approach this properly."
He leaned forward slightly.
Hands clasped.
Thinking.
Carefully.
"Fact one," he said quietly. "Something is wrong with my memory."
Obvious.
"Fact two. Certain things trigger… pressure. Pain."
Also obvious.
"Fact three." He hesitated. "Some things feel… important. Even when I don't know why."
That one sat heavier.
He tapped the table once with his finger.
Thinking.
"LAPD," he said again.
The pressure returned.
Slightly stronger this time.
He didn't push it.
Just observed.
"Okay," he muttered. "So that's still a problem."
He leaned back.
Stared at the ceiling again.
"If I avoid it," he said slowly, "nothing changes."
That felt true.
"If I push it…" He winced slightly. "That hurts."
Also true.
He exhaled.
Long.
Tired.
"So what's the middle?"
His eyes drifted back to the laptop.
The open browser.
The empty search bar.
"Compromise," he said quietly.
He leaned forward.
Typed:
"how dangerous is being a police officer"
The results loaded.
Statistics.
Articles.
Numbers.
Injuries per year.
Fatalities.
Risk factors.
Training requirements.
He read.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The numbers didn't scream.
They didn't dramatize.
They just… existed.
And somehow, that made it worse.
"Not rare," he murmured.
"Not constant either."
He scrolled.
"Controlled risk," he said.
The phrase felt academic.
Detached.
Safe.
His chest didn't agree.
He clicked another link.
Read more.
Closed it.
Opened another.
Same pattern.
By the time he stopped, his head hurt again.
Duller this time.
But deeper.
He leaned back.
Closed his eyes.
"Why is this the only thing that feels…" He stopped.
"…aligned?"
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
He frowned.
Opened his eyes again.
"Aligned with what?" he asked.
No answer.
He rubbed his temples.
Slow circles.
"This is stupid," he muttered. "This is actually stupid."
And yet—
His mind returned to it.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Not aggressively.
Not forcefully.
Just…
Consistently.
Like a compass needle that refused to settle anywhere else.
He laughed quietly.
No humor in it.
"Great," he said. "So the one thing that feels… important—"
He swallowed.
"—is also the thing that gets people hurt."
He sat with that.
Longer than he wanted to.
Eventually, he leaned forward again.
Hands on the keyboard.
"Fine," he said.
"Information only."
He typed:
"basic requirements to become a police officer"
Not LAPD.
Not yet.
The results appeared.
He clicked one.
Read.
Age.
Education.
Background checks.
Fitness.
Training.
Simple.
On paper.
He skimmed.
Didn't dive too deep.
Didn't need to.
He wasn't committing.
He closed the tab.
Sat back.
"That's it," he said. "That's as far as this goes."
Silence.
His head didn't spike.
Didn't punish him.
That almost felt worse.
He stared at the laptop.
"…why didn't that hurt?"
No answer.
He didn't like that either.
He pushed the laptop away.
Just a little.
Stood up.
Walked to the sink.
Got a glass of water.
Drank it slowly.
His hands were steady.
That was good.
Mostly.
He set the glass down.
Looked at his reflection faintly in the window.
"You're not joining anything," he said.
Clear.
Firm.
A pause.
"…right now."
There it was.
The adjustment.
Small.
But real.
He exhaled.
"Preparation isn't commitment," he added.
Like he needed to justify it.
That felt… acceptable.
Manageable.
He nodded once.
"Information first," he said. "Then decide."
Later.
Not today.
His mind didn't push back.
Not strongly.
But it didn't fully agree either.
He could feel it.
In the background.
Watching.
Waiting.
He turned away from the window.
Back toward the apartment.
The crack in the ceiling.
The mug.
The desk.
The laptop.
Everything looked the same.
He didn't feel the same.
He sat down again.
Opened a blank document.
The cursor blinked.
He stared at it for a moment.
Then typed:
"Today I heard about an injured officer. It didn't feel like news. It felt like something I was supposed to understand."
He paused.
Read it.
Didn't like it.
Left it anyway.
Pressed Enter.
"Thinking about it made my body react before I decided how to feel about it."
Another pause.
"I don't know if I'm scared of the job or of the fact that I can't ignore it."
He stopped typing.
That one sat heavier than the others.
He saved the file.
Didn't rename it.
Didn't need to.
Closed the laptop.
The apartment went quiet again.
He leaned back in the chair.
Closed his eyes.
For a moment—
There was nothing.
Then—
A flicker.
Not a memory.
Not fully.
Just a sense.
A moment that hadn't happened yet.
Movement.
Timing.
A shift.
His eyes snapped open.
The feeling vanished instantly.
He sat there, breathing slowly.
"…okay," he whispered.
That word again.
But this time—
It didn't sound convincing.
Outside, somewhere far off, a siren passed.
He didn't flinch.
That worried him more than if he had.
The sound faded into the distance.
The apartment settled.
And somewhere in the quiet space between his thoughts—
Something continued to move.
Not loudly.
Not clearly.
Just enough to make one thing certain.
This wasn't going to stay manageable for long.