Chapter 22 – The Weight of Action
The corridor outside the administrator's office was still.
Thomas pressed his back against the wall, heart thudding, space around him rippling with tension. Through the threads of reality, he saw Sister Mary. Her body lay limp on a chair in the middle of the room—unmoving, unconscious.
Outside that room, two men were talking in low tones, unaware that the eight-year-old boy had marked their positions. He had no idea what they'd done to her or how long she had been like that. But he knew she was in danger—and that she had tried to act on the documents he'd secretly delivered hours earlier.
Now she had the price for it.
He clenched his small fists.
He couldn't fight two grown men. Not physically. But that wasn't what he relied on.
He took one breath. Then vanished.
Blink.
The administrator's office was dark except for the lamplight spilling through the blinds. The door had been left ajar—careless. Thomas appeared just inside, already crouching low. Sister Mary was right there. Her face pale. A dark bruise was forming at the edge of her forehead.
His breath caught.
She didn't stir.
He darted across the room and grabbed the bundle of documents still lying beside her. Folders. Letters. Photos. Enough to reveal everything—proof of the child trafficking network hiding beneath the orphanage walls.
He slipped the files into his satchel, working fast.
Then, standing beside Sister Mary, he reached out and touched her shoulder.
Blink.
Nothing.
His stomach tightened.
He tried again. Focused more. Imagined the movement—her, traveling through space with him.
Blink.
Still nothing.
It was like dragging an anchor through solid rock. Something pushed back. Something inside the space itself rejected the idea of carrying someone unconscious.
Why?
He didn't understand—but he could feel it.
It wasn't just physical weight. It was will. Her unconscious mind wasn't reaching with his. And without that shared intent, the space wouldn't carry her.
He bent forward, tried again.
Failed again.
A sound jolted him—a scuff of a shoe.
Then another.
The voices outside the room were coming closer.
The door opened wider.
The first man saw Thomas.
His eyes widened.
The second man didn't pause. He pulled a gun.
Thomas reacted before thinking. His instincts and training ignited like a spark to dry paper.
He released all his gathered energy—folded space with a wild surge of both Reach and Echo, his two most potent spatial threads.
The two bullets fired never reached him.
Instead, in the same instant they left the chamber, they vanished.
Displaced.
Reappeared behind the shooters—fired from nothing, like ghosts from behind.
Two sharp cracks filled the room.
Both men jerked forward, struck squarely from the back.
They collapsed, one hitting the floor with a hard thud, the other slamming into a cabinet before falling limp.
Silence returned.
Thomas stood frozen.
His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. He stared at the two bodies.
He hadn't meant to hurt them.
He hadn't tried to kill.
His only thought had been to survive. To protect Sister Mary. To stop them.
But space had obeyed him. Fully. Completely.
And the result was blood and silence.
He didn't cry.
Not because it didn't affect him—but because his past life had shown him enough of death. Enough of pain. He was shocked, yes—but not new to horror.
He tightened the strap of the satchel.
Then looked back at Sister Mary.
He couldn't bring her through the folded space.
But he wouldn't leave her behind.
One more deep breath.
And then—Blink.
The cold night air hit him like a wall.
He stumbled forward, cradling Sister Mary's body against his chest, the heavy satchel weighing on his side. The front of the police station stood before him, awash in pale yellow streetlight.
His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground on the pavement.
The doors slid open.
Two officers spotted him immediately—rushing forward, hands reaching instinctively.
The first officer dropped beside him. "What the—? Is she—?"
"She's unconscious," Thomas whispered.
The other officer reached for his radio. "We need medics. Now. Adult female, mid-40s. Non-responsive."
They turned to Thomas, eyes narrowing.
"Where are you from, kid? What happened?"
He opened the satchel with trembling fingers, pulling the top folder halfway out.
"Inside… p-proof… people taking children…"
The officer stiffened.
"Where?"
Thomas pointed behind him. "The… the orphanage."
His voice broke on the last word. Not from tears. But from the effort of speaking at all.
The officer reached for the file, scanned the top page, eyes widening.
The other pressed his radio again. "Notify CID. We've got something big."
Thomas watched them both.
And felt his body finally relax.
He had done it.
Now it was in the hands of the world.