The drainage passage was never meant for a man to run through.
It was meant for water, refuse, things without fear or urgency. Its ceiling was low, its walls slick with old runoff, the floor uneven where stone had eroded into shallow bowls. Aarinen moved through it half-crouched, half-staggering, one hand dragging along the wall to stay upright.
Pain no longer translated cleanly into laughter.
That terrified him more than the pursuit.
Every breath scraped. His shoulder burned where the resonance field had bitten too deep. Blood loss blurred the edges of his vision, turning the darkness ahead into a tunnel that pulsed with his heartbeat.
Behind him, Merrowen worked.
Not chasing blindly.
Predicting.
Valves slammed shut somewhere above, redirecting water flow. The passage flooded ankle-deep in seconds, slowing him. Emergency lanterns ignited at intervals, bathing the tunnel in dull amber light.
They wanted visibility.
They wanted control.
Aarinen laughed weakly, the sound swallowed by the rushing water.
"Too late," he whispered.
He reached a junction where three channels split. He took the narrowest without thinking. Pain flared as his shoulder scraped stone, tearing cloth and skin alike.
The tunnel ended abruptly in a vertical shaft.
A ladder, rusted and bent, climbed upward into darkness.
Above it—fresh air.
Aarinen started climbing.
Halfway up, the city found him.
The water below surged violently as containment charges detonated upstream. The ladder shook. Stone cracked. The shaft vibrated with structural stress.
A voice echoed down, distorted but unmistakable.
"Aarinen," Calder called. "Stop climbing."
Aarinen did not look down.
"Last warning," Calder continued. "Surface access will be denied."
Aarinen laughed—raw, hoarse.
"You already denied it," he said, and climbed faster.
The ladder tore free beneath him just as he reached the top. He rolled out onto wet grass, coughing, as the shaft collapsed inward with a sound like the earth exhaling.
Rain fell in sheets.
He was outside the city.
Barely.
Merrowen's outer districts stretched behind him—canals, reservoirs, watch platforms half-hidden by mist. Ahead lay open land, rolling low hills broken by scrub and abandoned roads.
Freedom measured in minutes.
He staggered forward.
A horn sounded behind him—not alarm, but signal.
Authorization granted.
The rain thickened unnaturally, falling heavier in a narrow band around him. The ground softened, sucking at his boots. His steps slowed.
Aarinen felt it then.
Something new.
Not civic.
Not administrative.
Personal.
The pressure arrived without warning, crushing his chest as if invisible hands had seized his ribs. He fell hard, gasping, laughter choking off completely.
A figure stepped out of the rain.
No armor.
No insignia.
A cloak the color of wet ash, hanging loose, unmoving despite the storm. The man beneath it was thin, older than he looked, his face marked by scars that did not align with any known blade or burn.
His eyes were calm.
Too calm.
"You shouldn't have left," the man said quietly.
Aarinen tried to laugh.
Nothing came out.
"Who are you?" he rasped.
The man knelt beside him, close enough that Aarinen could smell iron and old parchment.
"My name doesn't matter," he said. "But you can call me Ishar."
He placed two fingers lightly against Aarinen's sternum.
Pain exploded.
Not sharp.
Total.
Aarinen screamed—actually screamed—for the first time in longer than he could remember.
And still, no laughter followed.
Ishar watched him carefully.
"There it is," he murmured. "The gap."
Aarinen convulsed, muscles locking as something inside him misfired. The translation mechanism—the thing that bent pain into laughter—stuttered, then collapsed entirely.
He lay there, shaking, helpless.
Ishar stood.
"You're running on a borrowed principle," he said. "One that was never meant to scale."
Aarinen forced himself to speak.
"You… did this?"
Ishar shook his head.
"No," he said. "I revealed it."
He turned his gaze toward the distant city.
"Merrowen wanted to manage you," he said. "That was foolish. You don't manage fractures."
He looked back down at Aarinen.
"You either seal them," he continued, "or you widen them until the structure fails."
Aarinen's vision darkened at the edges.
"Kill me," he whispered.
Ishar smiled—not kindly.
"No," he said. "You're far too useful alive."
He raised his hand.
The rain stopped falling around them.
Not ceased—diverted.
Droplets curved away midair, creating a hollow sphere of stillness.
"This," Ishar said, "is the cost of letting you leave."
He pressed his palm flat against Aarinen's chest.
The pain vanished.
Instantly.
Aarinen gasped, lungs filling properly again. Strength flooded back too fast, nauseating in its suddenness.
But something was missing.
He tried to laugh.
Nothing happened.
Ishar stepped back.
"I have taken nothing," he said calmly. "I have merely… displaced it."
Aarinen pushed himself upright, panic rising.
"What did you do?" he demanded.
Ishar's eyes hardened.
"I delayed your translation," he said. "Pain will be pain again. For a while."
Aarinen stared at him.
"You broke me."
Ishar shook his head.
"No," he replied. "I slowed you."
He turned away.
"Merrowen will survive," Ishar said. "Barely. You will survive too. Barely."
He paused, then added:
"But now, when you hurt someone… you will feel it first."
The rain rushed back in, drenching them both.
Ishar vanished into it—not by speed, not by magic, but by the simple certainty that he was no longer there.
Aarinen stood alone in the storm.
No laughter.
No deflection.
Just pain.
Real, unfiltered, terrifying pain.
Far behind him, Merrowen's watch platforms powered down, satisfied that escalation had reached acceptable limits.
Far ahead, unseen forces adjusted trajectories, recalculating risk.
Aarinen took a step forward.
His leg buckled.
He fell to one knee, breathing hard.
For the first time, the world did not bend when he suffered.
And for the first time, fear found a place to stand.
The real cost of freedom had finally arrived.