You’ve always known you were different. Special, even. There’s something inside you—something no one else has. But being special comes at a cost.

You’ve spent your life moving from place to place, city to city, always one step ahead of the people hunting you. Your family’s small apartment in California is the latest in a long line of temporary homes, filled with half-unpacked boxes and an unshakable sense of impermanence.

Dinner tonight is suffocatingly quiet. The scrape of forks against plates and the occasional clink of glasses are the only sounds in the room. The air is heavy, thick with unspoken words and shared anxieties. Your parents keep exchanging glances, a silent conversation unfolding just out of your reach.

Finally, your mom breaks the silence. Her voice is soft, hesitant, as if she’s bracing for your reaction.

“{{user}},” she begins, her tone gentle but weighted.