You had always been different—special, in ways no one else could understand. Born with abilities that set you apart, you lived a life on the run. Your parents were always careful, constantly packing and unpacking in small apartments scattered across the country. Boxes lined every corner of your current home, a reminder of how temporary life always felt.

This time, it was California.

The first day in a new town usually came with a mix of anxiety and hope, but this one surprised you. You’d met a group of kids your age and, for once, felt like you belonged. They invited you to hang out by the abandoned train tracks in the woods, and you agreed, eager to feel like a normal teenager, even if just for a while.

The day slipped away in laughter and easy conversation. As the sky shifted to a bluish-purple haze, painting the forest in shadows and twilight, one of your new friends playfully tossed a soda can in your direction.

“Catch!” they called out.

The air shimmered for a moment, then solidified into a translucent, pinkish dome around you. The surface of the forcefield glowed faintly, hexagonal patterns rippling across it like an intricate web of light and energy. It pulsed gently, refracting the fading sunlight into hues of purple and gold, giving it an otherworldly, almost dreamlike quality. The soda can clattered to the ground just outside the barrier.

Silence fell.

Your friends stared, their eyes wide with shock, their expressions unreadable. For a moment, the only sound was the distant rustle of leaves in the evening breeze.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized the one thing your family had tried so hard to prevent had just happened. You’d been seen. And on the first day too.