THE WEIGHT OF BEING SEEN

The first civilian noticed something was wrong during morning rush hour.

Not a collapse. Not a distortion.

A sound.

A low, resonant hum beneath the subway platform that vibrated through bone instead of air.

People shifted uncomfortably. One woman laughed nervously and said it felt like standing too close to a speaker at a concert. Someone else clutched their temples, groaning about a headache.

Akiro felt it like a hand closing around his spine.

He staggered, gripping a pillar for support, knuckles whitening. The mark on his chest throbbed in sync with the vibration.

Rin cursed under her breath. “It’s broadcasting.”

“Broadcasting what?” he gasped, fear and awe tangled together.

“You,” she said flatly.

Akiro blinked. “…Me?”

“Yes,” Rin replied, eyes scanning the crowd, calculating. “Every time you refuse to be quiet—the city feels it. And now, so do they.”

That was when the pressure snapped.

The hum spiked into a sharp, tooth-rattling resonance. Phones glitched, lights flickered, and someone screamed—a child whose parents barely noticed, distracted by the rumble beneath their feet.

Akiro dropped to one knee, pressing his hands over his ears, though the sensation wasn’t just sound. It was feeling. A wave of magic surged outward from him, brushing across everyone like a tide they didn’t understand.

No rain. No darkness. No magical theatrical eruption. Just a crowded platform full of oblivious people who had no idea how close they were to seeing the truth.

Wardens moved fast. Too fast.

Suppressors slammed into place. Magic-damping fields rippled outward, brushing the crowd like invisible fingers. Memory anchors triggered. The hum faded, replaced by confusion and irritation. Someone cursed the subway maintenance, someone else muttered about headache medicine. A train pulled in behind them with the usual screech of brakes, and life continued, lying as comfortably over itself as ever.

Akiro stared at the floor, chest heaving. “…They felt me,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Rin knelt beside him, steady but visibly tense. Her hands shook slightly as she brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “Yes,” she said, calm but low, like the admission itself carried weight. “…That’s new.”

“Yes,” he said again, this time with a bitter laugh, sharp, flat and empty. “I always wanted to be noticed. But not like this.”

She looked at him carefully, really looked, the kind of gaze that measures not just a person’s movements but their intent, their vulnerabilities. “You can’t stay anonymous anymore,” she said. “…The system is reacting to your resistance. You’re…loud.”

“Great,” he muttered. “…I’ve officially become a spiritual feedback loop...”

Before Rin could respond, a shadow slid into Akiro’s awareness, melting into the light—calm. Curious. Infuriatingly patient.

“Ilya.”

He emerged from the stairwell as he belonged there, unhurried, hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes scanning the aftermath like a historian noting the exact impact of a storm. “Congratulations,” he said mildly. “…You’ve officially become a problem.”

Rin surged to her feet, fists clenched. “You orchestrated this.”

“No,” Ilya replied smoothly, tilting his head. “…I observed it.”

Akiro pushed himself upright, knees unsteady. “…People almost got hurt.”

“They will get hurt,” Ilya said softly. “…That’s unavoidable now.”

“That’s not an excuse!” Akiro snapped, his voice loud, the mark on his chest pulsing with every syllable.

“No,” Ilya agreed evenly. “…It’s a consequence.”

Rin folded her arms. “…And what now? We can’t exactly tell them it’s magic. They’d call you insane. They’d go into panic”

Akiro exhaled, rubbing his face. “…The universe owes me a warning label. Something like, Caution: Anchored Teen Will Cause Minor Infrastructure Panic.”

Ilya’s lips twitched—almost like a smile. “…I can see why Rin seems fond of you.”

“What?”

The subway announcement crackled overhead, cheerfully apologising for delays. Akiro stared at the speaker, and the absurdity hit him full force. “…Of course,” he muttered. “…Apologies.”

He looked around. People were resuming their routines, obliviously. A businessman tapped impatiently on his watch, muttering something about being late. A teen on the phone complained about network issues. The city kept moving, pretending nothing had happened.

Rin leaned closely, whispering. “…You understand now, don’t you? The way you resist, the way you exist, it doesn’t just affect you. It radiates.”

Akiro nodded slowly. “…It’s louder than I imagined. And the worst part is…people can feel it before they see it.”

“Exactly,” Rin said. “…And that’s dangerous. Both for them…and for you.”

“Then what do we do?” His voice wavered slightly, but there was determination there, sharpened by exhaustion. “…Do I hide? Do I stop using it?”

“Stop using it?” Rin echoed, incredulous. “…You can’t. Not now.”

He shook his head. “…Then I’m just…a living antenna. A broadcast station for chaos.”

“You’re more than that,” Rin said firmly. “…But you’re dangerous. That’s the truth.”

The mark on his chest pulsed hotter. Akiro pressed his hand over it instinctively. “…And it reacts to everything I feel. Resistance, frustration, exhaustion…”

“…Everything,” Rin confirmed. “…And the city notices. Always.”

Akiro let out a long, shaky breath, staring at the ceiling above the platform. “…I feel like it’s judging me. Like the city itself is aware of every misstep.”

“That’s because it is,” Rin said softly. “…And it will keep watching until you learn to guide it—or until it guides you.”

Akiro laughed quietly, dry. “…So, basically, it’s parenting me now?”

Rin shot him a look, unimpressed. “…If you want to call it that.”

He looked down at the people around him—commuters brushing past, unaware of the threads of raw magic twisting invisibly around their ankles. “…They have no idea. None. And it’s…so unfair.”

“Magic isn’t fair,” Rin said simply. “…Neither is survival.”

“…I get it,” Akiro said, voice low. “…But it’s a lot to carry. To feel everything and not be able to tell anyone. And every time I think I’m managing, something new spikes.”

“That’s why we prepare,” Rin said. “…That’s why we train. That’s why you anchor.”

“…Anchor?” Akiro repeated, voice tight. “…I’m a broadcasting station, a walking emergency, a…anchor. I’m all these things. And I’m just…me!”

“You’re enough,” Rin said softly. “…Even if you feel like you aren’t.”

The hum under the platform began to thrum again, faintly, and Akiro froze. The pulse of raw, unchecked magic was brushing against his consciousness. “…It’s trying to reach me,” he whispered. “…It wants to talk.”

“…Or test,” Rin said, tense. “…Either way, it’s significant.”

Ilya stepped forward, calm as ever. “…And you’ll need to learn the difference fast.”

“Learn the difference between what?” Akiro asked, exasperated. “…Talking and testing?”

Ilya’s gaze sharpened. “…Between control and being controlled. Between reaction and intention. And right now, you’re failing at both.”

Akiro felt the mark flare, responding to Ilya’s words. “… I get it. I’m failing.”

“Not failing,” Rin said firmly. “…Learning. Learning costs something.”

“…And how much do we know what that cost is?” he asked bitterly. “…Because I’ve lost enough already.”

“You’ll lose more,” Ilya said softly, “…But knowledge has a price.”

Akiro closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, letting the vibrations under his skin settle just slightly. “…I feel it,” he said quietly. “…All of it. The hum, the city, the pressure, the Wardens watching, the Unbound…all of it.”

Rin rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. “…That’s the first step. Not resisting. Not hiding. Feeling. And acknowledging it.”

He let the weight of it sink in. “…Then what?”

“Then we figure out how to live in it,” Rin said, “…Because it won’t stop.”

Akiro opened his eyes. The crowd moved past them, unaware of the danger closing in. The city continued, ignoring the tremors beneath its skin. And for the first time, Akiro realised—this wasn’t about hiding, or surviving, or even resisting. This was about presence. About being loud enough to matter without breaking.

“…I’m loud,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Rin said. “…And that’s both your weapon and your curse.”

“…hmm,” Akiro said, shoulders tightening. “…I’m a human tuning fork.”

Rin rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of something almost like respect. “…Better a tuning fork than invisible.”

“…Yeah,” he said, letting out a dry laugh. “…Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

They walked together off the platform, past commuters still arguing about delays and coffee, past the echoes of their own power lingering faintly in the tiles. The hum beneath the city softened, retreating, but Akiro could still feel it—a faint heartbeat pulsing in rhythm with his own.

And he understood.

He was no longer just a witness. He was the city’s signal. Its anchor. Its resonance. And for better or worse, the world would notice him.