The question did not arrive all at once.
It formed slowly, like pressure building behind a wall no one wanted to admit was cracking.
Elyon felt it before he heard it spoken.
He woke to a different quiet. Not the careful quiet of restraint. Not the tense quiet of fear. This one had weight to it, like a held pause. The kind people take before they decide something together.
The watchers were already there.
They stood farther back now, spread wider, as if mapping a boundary that had not yet been drawn. Their devices were active. Their eyes moved between Elyon, the zone, and each other.
No one spoke to him.
That was new.
The hum beneath hearing felt thin this morning. Not gone. Just stretched, like it had been pulled too far too many times.
A light flickered near the edge of the zone.
Elyon focused.
It steadied.
A door across the street jammed at the same time.
Someone sighed.
Not angry.
Resigned.
By midmorning, people had gathered near the board. Not to argue. Not to complain.
To look.
The chalk marks from yesterday were gone. Someone had cleaned them off carefully. In their place, a single line had been added, neat and deliberate.
CURRENT STATE: UNSTABLE
No commentary. No blame.
Just a label.
Elyon stared at it until his eyes hurt.
A man near the board spoke quietly. "So what do we do now?"
No one answered him right away.
That was the moment the question became real.
Not is Elyon enough?
But what happens if he isn't?
Elyon sat on the steps and listened.
People spoke in fragments. Half sentences. Careful words.
"We can't risk a full rebound."
"It's spreading faster when he misses."
"What if it jumps outside the zone?"
"We need options."
Options.
Elyon felt that word press against him from all sides.
He stood slowly, testing his balance. The hum beneath hearing shifted but did not settle fully.
People noticed.
Conversations paused.
Not because he demanded attention.
Because his movement still mattered.
Elyon walked a few steps toward the edge of the zone. Each step felt heavier than the last. The air seemed to resist him, like the city itself was unsure whether to let him go that far.
A watcher stepped forward.
Not blocking him.
Marking distance.
"Please don't cross the line," the watcher said calmly.
"Why?" Elyon asked.
The watcher looked past him, toward the people gathered near the board. "Because we're discussing that."
Discussing what?
Elyon already knew.
At noon, the first proposal surfaced.
Not announced.
Suggested.
A woman spoke near the board, voice steady but tight. "If the load is too much for one place, we could divide it."
A murmur followed.
"Divide how?" someone asked.
"Time," she replied. "Location. Movement."
Elyon felt cold settle into his stomach.
They were not talking about damage.
They were talking about him.
A man shook his head. "Moving him caused spikes before."
"Yes," the woman agreed. "Uncontrolled movement."
The word controlled followed.
Another voice joined in. "What if we guide it? Slowly. On schedule."
Elyon laughed once, sharp and humorless.
Several people turned toward him.
"You're talking about relocation," Elyon said.
The woman hesitated. "We're talking about risk reduction."
"For who?" Elyon asked.
No one answered.
That was answer enough.
The hum beneath hearing wavered again. A crack spread along the base of a wall nearby and stopped halfway, ugly and unresolved.
Someone pointed. "See? This is what we mean."
Elyon sat back down hard.
This was not rejection.
This was planning.
By afternoon, the watchers' behavior changed.
They stopped observing Elyon directly.
They watched paths.
Routes. Distances. Timings.
They were measuring what would happen if the center moved.
Elyon felt the strain immediately. The hum pulled unevenly now, like it didn't know where to settle.
A child ran too close to the edge of the zone and tripped. Elyon reacted on instinct, standing too fast.
The hum surged.
Glass shattered farther down the street.
Guards rushed in, guiding the child away.
No one looked at Elyon with anger.
They looked at him with certainty.
"That's why we need to decide," someone said quietly.
Decide.
As evening approached, the gathered group grew smaller but more focused. The casual onlookers drifted away. Those who stayed were the ones whose routines depended on stability.
Mara stood at the edge of the line, arms crossed tight against her chest.
"They're not asking if you should go," she said softly.
Elyon nodded. "They're asking how."
"Yes."
Elyon looked around the zone. The cracked walls. The steady lights. The half-fixed things that only worked because he was here.
"If I leave," he said, "it won't spread slowly."
Mara swallowed. "They know."
"And they're still considering it."
"Yes."
The hum beneath hearing thinned again, strained to its limit.
Elyon closed his eyes.
This was the shape of the choice forming.
Not a clean refusal.
Not a stand.
A forced comparison.
Him here, wearing down.
Or him moving, tearing things loose.
Neither was good.
Both would hurt people.
Night fell unevenly again. The watchers remained. The board stayed.
Someone had added a second line beneath the first, faint but deliberate.
DECISION PENDING
Elyon stared at it for a long time.
This was still Part I.
Still Earth.
Still the slums.
But the question had changed.
It was no longer what happens if Elyon refuses?
It was:
What happens if the city chooses for him?
Elyon leaned back against the wall, the hum pressing thin and heavy through his body.
For the first time since the First Echo Bleed began, he understood what was truly at stake.
Not control.
Not safety.
Consent.
And the city was very close to deciding it did not need his anymore.
The question had taken shape.
Soon, it would demand an answer.