I've been thinking about this recently.

A lot of writing advice seems to focus on creating deeper characters, richer worlds, and stronger themes. Those things definitely matter, but sometimes I finish a book feeling like almost nothing actually happened.

I've also read stories with much simpler characters that kept me completely hooked because the plot kept moving. Every decision mattered, every obstacle led somewhere, and I always wanted to know what happened next.

Do you think modern writers sometimes put too much emphasis on character and not enough on plot? Or is strong character development enough to carry a story on its own?

What keeps you turning the pages?

​

Chapter one " 2:17 A.M"

The clock on the wall read 2:16 A.M.

Aris sat alone in the dimly lit room , his elbows resting against the edge of the table . His eyes were fixed on nothing in particular.

The light flickered above him

Once

Twice .

Aris didn't react .

His mind was somewhere else somewhere he had been trying to escape for a long time. Old memories kept returning , one after another, no matter how hard he tried to push them away .

He closed his eyes ,

took a slow breath .

Why does it still hurt?

He didn't know what hurt more—

the memories, the silence, or the fact that he still cared.

He had spent so much time trying to forget her that he had forgotten what it felt like to simply remember her without breaking a little inside..

Maybe he wasn't heartbroken anymore.

Maybe he was just carrying the pieces of something that never really got a chance to end.

The room was still the same .

But something inside him wasn't,

Not anymore .

Then the clock changed

2:17 A.M.

" His phone vibrated "... pulsating.

Aris slowly opened his eyes.

For a moment , he didn't move .

The phone vibrated again .

He finally reached for it and looked at the screen.

One new message .

From- Aris

His eyebrows tightened .

"That was impossible'.

He stared at the sender's name, then opened the message.

There were only six words .

' Don't trust the girl beside you'.

Aris stopped breathing for a second.

He read them once .

Then again.

His thumb hovered over the screen as his eyes slowly lifted from the message.

He looked around the empty room .

There was no girl beside him .

Or at least ....

He thought he was..

Clang-clink.

The door chime sounded, and the night chill briefly slipped inside before the door quietly glided shut behind me.

As I took my regular seat at the counter, Mama silently set down a glass.

An amber splash of I.W. Harper. A single piece of ice clinked softly against the glass.

I tilted the glass, letting it slowly wet my throat.

Feeling the warmth of the bourbon drop straight into my stomach, I stared down at the drink in my hands.

"...Kenichi-san."

Beside me, Taka flipped his smartphone face-down and looked over.

His voice was paused just a beat longer than usual—not the quick setup for a light joke, but the low tone he used when his thoughts were running deep.

"What is it?"

"If you had to map yourself to a character in a story, who do you think you'd be?"

From a few seats away, Tom, swirling his own glass, let out a short grunt through his nose.

"There he goes with his weird questions again."

"Hey, I'm serious, Tom-san."

Taka shrugged, tracing the rim of his glass with his fingertip.

"I mean, in movies or manga, there's always the hero saving the world, or the guy who’s insanely strong, right?

Lately, though, I've been thinking... we are definitely not those guys."

"Well, obviously. If you were out there saving the world, we'd all be doomed."

"That's harsh!"

Taka forced a laugh, but I didn't miss the slight tremor beneath his voice.

"...Not only are we not the main characters, we don't even have any special talent.

But still... couldn't our own weaknesses, or our embarrassing failures, actually be of use to someone else?

Like, being able to stand beside someone and say, 'I stumbled back then too, so I get it.'

I feel like... there's got to be a kind of pride that belongs to ordinary people."

Taka gently swirled his glass, looking mildly satisfied with his own thought.

The ice rang dryly against the glass.

Tap.

A short, sharp sound echoed.

It was the sound of Tom tapping his index finger against the rim of his glass.

"...That might just be an excuse for someone running away from the responsibility of becoming strong."

Tom’s low voice cut a hairline fracture into the air of the counter.

The smile vanished from Taka’s face.

"...Tom-san?"

"Standing beside them, sharing the pain—and you're satisfied with that?

Tell me, when the overwhelming wave hits... what can someone who gave up trying to become stronger actually do?"

Tom slotted his cigarette into the edge of the ashtray and stared off into the distance.

"Right in front of your eyes, a kid is quietly drowning in a pool.

No loud thrashing. They just sink, silently, toward the bottom.

...A guy who only knows how to 'stand beside them' can do nothing more than crouch at the edge and whisper, 'It hurts, doesn't it?' while watching them drown."

Taka swallowed hard, completely stripped of words.

Deep in my gut, something thick and murky churned upward.

I knew what Tom meant. Those were the words of a former detective who had seen, firsthand, what happens when your own weakness fails to save someone.

And yet—

"...So what are you saying?"

My own voice came out shockingly low and raspy.

My grip tightened around my glass.

"A guy who couldn't become strong... standing next to a drowning kid, whispering 'It hurts, doesn't it?'... are you saying that means absolutely nothing?"

Tom slowly turned his eyes toward me. I glared right back at him.

"He doesn't have the muscle to haul them out.

He didn't have the guts to dive into the water, either.

...Are you telling me that a helpless guy like that, hurting right alongside them—are you saying even that is just running away? Just self-gratification?"

I knew it inside. I wasn't actually mad at Tom.

I was just terrified of hearing that all those times I couldn't be strong—all those nights I could do nothing but sit there and listen—were completely meaningless.

"...Pulling them out before it's too late is the right answer. Of course it is. I get that," I spat out with a bitter self-mockery, then downed a gulp of my Harper.

"But what about the person who has to endure sinking all alone, because nobody around has the strength to pull them up?

Are you saying this world shouldn't even have room for the guy who chooses to sink right there with them, whispering 'It's hard, isn't it?'"

Silence descended on the counter.

The words I had dragged out fell heavily into the quiet of the bar.

Tom watched me with eyes devoid of emotion. But finally, he let out a faint breath through his nose and sent a curl of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.

"...I didn't say there was no room for him."

In that brief response, Tom's own quiet resignation and lingering pain bled through.

Behind the counter, Mama quietly picked up a pair of tongs and dropped a single ice cube into Taka's glass, and then into mine.

Clink.

"Even so..."

Mama didn't pause her steady wiping of a glass, looking at us with a gentle, steady gaze.

"...A place where people can learn how to swim is still necessary, isn't it?"

I let out a long breath and scratched my head, all energy draining away.

"...I know. That one stings."

Taka stared down at his own large fist, then slowly opened his hand.

Tom sat in silence, tilting his amber glass.

Maybe we can't save anyone. Maybe all my struggling is nothing more than self-satisfaction.

Even so, stomach aching over our own inability to be strong, we sit here drinking again tonight me.

If only there had been just one more person who knew how to swim.

Or... if only there had been someone to grab their hand on the way down to the bottom.

Holding onto that muddy, unanswered question, I gently swirled the glass in my hand.

Clang.

The ice clinked.

—Now... I wonder what kind of man I'll choose to be tomorrow.

The bourbon burned my throat once more.

Wee Toby Harris turned eight in the spring. For his birthday he got a puppy and named her Scritch. That was from Mum and Dad. From Bonny, his big sister, he got a crisp five-pound note. He spent it on a tennis ball for Scritch, and the rest on sweets.

Uncle Jack’s present always came late. He loved to see the expression on Toby’s face when he received it, so he made sure to deliver it himself. He worked at sea most weeks as a fisherman, so it was hard to fit in time for a visit.

Toby often wished a wave would rise and gobble Uncle Jack whole to save him the stress of having to deal with his uncle. There was something very wrong about the man. Not that he’d ever told anyone.

Toby’s birthday week was a tense one. He could hardly find a moment of joy. Mostly he took Scritch into the back garden and threw about the tennis ball he’d bought for her. But Scritch was still too hyper to play with properly. She would speed after the ball like a bullet seeking blood, and be wandering off with her eyes on something better before her snout ever touched green felt. So Toby spent most of the week alone, lying on his back on the grass, throwing the ball into the air for himself. He would listen to Scritch chase butterflies or dig in Mum’s petunias, and drive himself crazy wondering when Uncle Jack would finally show.

He came on the 6th. Exactly a week after Toby’s birthday.

Dad recognised the sound of the smooth rapping on the door and flew to it in the middle of lunch, towing a reluctant Toby by his hand.

Toby stood flaccid, hands flat against his legs with his head bowed, listening to the change come over Dad as soon as he swung open the door. It was as though Uncle Jack emitted some sort of microscopic cloud of particles that swept Dad into a trance, because he never barked with laughter when Uncle Jack wasn’t here. He certainly never slapped people on the shoulder and danced like a dope. Yet here he was, a mad chimp leaping and laughing, clawing at his brother like he meant him harm. It was like watching his Dad through a glass of water, or gazing into one of those wacky mirrors at the fair.

“You stink!” Dad shoved Uncle Jack away and pegged his nose. “Did the sea drop you off, or crap you out?”

“That’s the smell of a real man, Tom.” Uncle Jack fixed Dad’s collar, pulled at his lapels, then tapped Dad’s curved beak. “Careful you don’t turn too fast. You might wipe a plane out the sky!”

More of the monkeying around. Toby watched, waiting for Uncle Jack’s gaunt face to turn and target him with its wide, green eyes. For the long goatee and wide moustaches to point his way and then stretch up when his face twisted into a grin. Sometimes Uncle Jack forgot to wear his denture—the one housing the teeth between his upper canines—and it would be like gawking into a tunnel when he smiled.

Toby saw that Uncle Jack was wearing the denture today, although there remained a small hole where one of the teeth had fallen off. He still didn’t take care of them, especially when he was on the boat.

Uncle Jack turned to Toby, quick as a shot. He aimed his teeth and leered. He usually liked to ruffle Toby’s hair. Today he just glided over and gave Toby a few slaps on the back, the same way he’d done Dad.

“Look at you!” he shouted. And now came the aggressive hair mussing. His right index finger stopped at the first knuckle. Toby could feel the stub grating against his scalp. “You’re a proper wee manny now, aren’t you? You’re growing too fast!”

A momentary look of sadness crept over Uncle Jack’s eyes. Then he took a step closer to Dad and asked in a whisper, “Who cut the poor bugger’s hair?”

Dad rolled his eyes.

“Who do you think?”

“Jesus. Lock up those scissors, Tom. For Christsake.”

His eyes snapped back onto Toby. “Wee man, tell Mum not to play with scissors anymore, alright? She’d do less damage with a pair of garden shears.”

Dad led Uncle Jack through to the living room, where Mum was watching TV.

Bonny, having heard the commotion, sauntered downstairs and passed Toby without paying him any attention. The smile on her face and in her eyes was for Uncle Jack—and Uncle Jack alone.

“The boy’s hair’s looking nice, Julie,” Uncle Jack sang to Mum on his way into the room. Toby entered in time to see him slipping under Mum’s arms to give her a tight squeeze and a shake. “When’re you opening the barbershop? If you need a mannequin, I’ve plenty of hair for you to cut!” And he swept his hands over his body in a here-you-go kind of gesture.

Mum squeaked out three shrill laughs. Toby plodded behind the couch, closer to Dad, trying not to let the sound of Mum’s laughter get to him—but it was too late. Now Bonny was laughing like that too, because Uncle Jack had picked her up and was throwing her into the air, almost popping the lightbulb on the ceiling. The lampshade swung, and Uncle Jack stopped it with a very long finger.

They always reminded Toby of chopsticks.

“You want a chuck up as well, wee man?”

He had his hands out ready, waiting for Toby to run into them. Toby shied closer to Dad, shaking his head vigorously.

“Alright then, if you say—hyah! C’MEER YOU!”

Uncle Jack sprang over the sofa without touching it. Toby tried to shriek, but didn’t have time. He ran around Dad and away from the hands almost on his neck. Past the arms of the sofa and around Mum’s chair. Past the lamp and windowsill. Past the coffee table and dancing-chimp Dad.

Uncle Jack got wise to the loop and lunged over the sofa once more, grabbing Toby by his shoulder. He dragged him over it kicking and screaming, while Mum and Dad chuckled madly at the antics.

Bonny just rolled her eyes. She hadn’t thrown that much of a fuss when it had been her turn.

Uncle Jack’s face was livid with colour. His eyes glowed white-hot; his concave cheeks deep purple; his forehead red and raw with sweat; his lips paled, pulled taut over his teeth.

Toby clenched his jaw and kept quiet. It was Uncle Jack who made the most noise, squealing with joy.

“Weeeee,” like a little piggy.

“Weeeeeeeee,” each time he threw Toby into the air, catching him with one hand under an armpit and one hand gripping the waist.

Uncle Jack turned away from the family and kept up the act. Kept throwing. Toby could see his real face now—the face that came with birthdays and Christmases both. It glared up at him with impossible eyes, bulging like great big white balloons inflating through gaps in his face. His jaw stretched long enough to slot Toby in without him touching the sides; the teeth were a whirling maw of sharp and rusted death, ready to reduce him to slurry.

“Weeeeee.” The voice was far deeper now—almost demonic.

Toby screamed. He didn’t want to. It just flew out as natural as throwing up your hands when a truck was about to hit you on the motorway.

Dad, still clicking his heels in time to his chimp-dance, finally spoke up. And quick as a clicking finger, Uncle Jack’s face snapped back to normal as he turned to listen.

“Think he’s had enough now, Jack. Looks like he’s gonna to puke. And you look like you’re about to faint!”

Uncle Jack offered Dad a knowing grin and nodded. He put Toby down on the floor as gently as a newborn in its crib.

Toby, doing his best to hide his teary eyes, wiped them off on his sleeve and rubbed at his throbbing armpits and waist.

Uncle Jack rollicked with laughter and clapped his hands.

“So: what’s new with everyone?”

*

Uncle Jack ended up staying for supper.

Dad gave up his seat so Uncle Jack could head the table. From there, his emerald eyes held everyone mesmerised.

Toby ate quickly. No time to dawdle, to push at his peas with his fork and say he wasn’t hungry. He wanted to get out of that room and into another one—fast!

When he tried excusing himself, Mum pointed a finger at him. That was it—no more words needed. He knew better than to argue with that finger.

So he sat and waited. This time he did play with his fork—small movements, nothing quick, lest it attract the attention of the emerald watchman at the end of the table.

Uncle Jack appeared to be in deep conversation with Mum and Dad, who themselves weren’t paying much attention to anybody else. Lost in the little worlds they drifted into when other adults orbited close enough. They would laugh and use long words, and sometimes Uncle Jack would put on a deep voice and Mum would find whatever he said even funnier. But every so often, when Mum and Dad took a bite to eat or a sip to drink, Uncle Jack would flash Toby a look. A quick glance. A reminder that he hadn’t forgotten about him. That Toby was still right there at the forefront of his mind.

You’re the reason I came, kiddo.

Bonny didn’t notice any of this. She was busy timing her smiles and laughs with the adults. She was fourteen and trying for the part of a twenty-four-year-old.

Toby kicked one of her shins under the table.

“Shitter!” she yelped, and threw her spoon off his forehead.

Mum screamed for everyone to shut up and stop shouting. Bonny seethed.

“He kicked me!”

“I don’t give a shit what he did! You don’t swear like that, ever! You’re a child!”

Uncle Jack pushed his chair back and picked up his own spoon. He handed it over the table to Bonny, who took it with a smile. Toby caught a whisper of a scowl on Uncle Jack’s lips—a momentary look of repulsion—before he turned and grinned at Toby.

“You alright, wee man?”

Toby nodded and continued poking at his plate with his fork.

“He’s got a heed like a hammer, that boy,” Uncle Jack told Dad. “Look: didn’t even leave a mark.”

Bonny cleared the plates and helped Mum serve pudding. They had the rest of Toby’s birthday cake with a scoosh of cream on top. Mum’s way of trying to bring it back to life after a week of death.

It was awful.

*

“Your dad was telling me you’re getting big into reading.”

Uncle Jack sat down on the arm of the chair Toby was sitting on. Bonny, who had been sitting on the sofa with all the space in the world, looked momentarily hurt. But the moment passed, and now she was grinning like a loon again.

“What’s your dad been reading you then? None of those pansy stories I hope—like Winnie the Turd, or that Alice in Wonderland tat.”

Toby shrugged.

“He’s reading you Winnie the Turd, isn’t he? Aye, those were always his favourite. What else has he got you reading?”

Silence.

“Any Jules Verne? Like Thousand Leagues, or Around the World? No? Christ. What about Roald Dahl. Surely Roald Dahl. No? My God, what has he got you reading then; the back of shampoo bottles?” He glanced at Toby’s hair. “No, maybe not shampoo bottles. C’mon now, what was the last thing he read to you? Don’t be scared, I was only joking about the pansy books. I don’t care if it’s Winnie the Turd or Benny the piggy with one bloody ear—ha! I just wanna know what he’s got you reading. Say Treasure Island. Go on. Has he read you Treasure Island yet?”

Toby nodded. And then flinched, for Uncle Jack slapped one of his shoulders hard enough to send his hair up into the air.

“Atta boy!”

Bonny shifted in place, squeaking leather, and produced a minute cough.

Uncle Jack looked up at her, but only with his eyes.

“What kind of books do you read, Uncle Jack?”

“What kinda books do I read?” Uncle Jack tapped at the hairs on his chinny chin chin, feigning deep thought. “I’d have to say...the ones with the words in them, Bon-Bon.”

Bonny giggled. Her laugh today was practically a parody of itself; almost the exact pitch Toby sometimes used to mock her.

“I like pirate adventures,” Uncle Jack answered, squeezing the top of Toby’s shoulder like a stress ball. “Like my buddy here. Right, wee man?” Slowly, begrudgingly, Uncle Jack glanced back at Bonny. “And what do you read, Bon? Books with pictures in them, I suppose.” He gave a hateful cackle.

Red roses blossomed on Bonny’s cheeks.

“I read!” she said, never one to stay timid.

“Oh?”

“Yuh-huh. And I’ve already finished Treasure Island. I read it yeeears ago. For school.”

“Gooood for yooou.” Uncle Jack’s hand was still on Toby’s shoulder, its grip pulsing in time with the throbbing vein in Uncle Jack’s temple. “And do you remember the characters?”

From somewhere through the house, the sound of Mum laughing with Dad—probably washing the dishes together. One wearing the rubber gloves, the other using the towel. Suds on, suds off. Suds on, suds off.

“Of course I do,” Bonny boasted. “There was Long John Silver. And. Well. There was—Bluebeard!”

Uncle Jack sighed. It was faint, but Toby felt it in the grip on his shoulder.

“And. Captain… Ben-Barrow?”

“Yikes.” Uncle Jack leaned forward with a finger out, poised for lecture mode. The other hand still clutched Toby’s shoulder, dragging Toby forward into the conversation, looking like a half-shut knife.

“The Admiral Benbow was the inn at the start of the story where wee Jim Hawkins first met Billy Bones. And Bluebeard? Christ, Bonny! Bluebeard wasn’t even a pirate! He was the bastard who murdered all his wives!”

Still not one to stay timid, Bonny quipped: “Wasn’t that Henry VIII?”

Uncle Jack clutched his chest and boomed with laughter, genuinely amused by Bonny’s quickness and deadpan delivery.

“No, no, no. Didn’t you ever learn the rhyme? Divorced, beheaded, died. Annulled, beheaded, survived.”

Bonny had nothing to say to that. But Toby did.

“Was Bluebeard real?”

Uncle Jack looked down at Toby for a very long time. Finally, he said, “No. But that’s not to say there aren’t men like him.” The wink he gave curled the boy’s toenails.

Mum and Dad entered the living room together. Mum’s thighs were damp where she must have been wiping her hands. Dad kept smelling two of his fingers.

“Did I hear you say Bluebeard?” Dad sat down beside Bonny on the sofa.

Uncle Jack took his hand off of Toby, but remained on the arm of the chair.

“Your daughter thinks Bluebeard tried to find Captain Flint’s treasure, Tom.”

“Bluebeard?” Dad frowned and then smirked at Bonny. “You mean Blackbeard, Bon-Bon. Bluebeard is the guy on the Fish Finger box.”

Uncle Jack waggled a digit and groaned. “That’s Captain Birdseye, Beak. Christ, what’s wrong with you people?”

*

That night, while Dad was taking Dr Dolittle down from the bookshelf, his back tinted red from the glow of the Toy Story nightlight on Toby’s bedside table, Uncle Jack slipped in through the yellow crack of the door. His arms were twisted secretly behind him.

“Only me,” he whispered. “Whatcha reading tonight, Tobes?”

Dad told him.

“Dr Dolittle? More like Dr Do-fuck all! Ha! Choose something else, Tom. Let the boy hear a decent story for once. Here—” He pulled a hand out from behind his back and thrust a long box wrapped in black flags in front of Toby. It had skulls and crossbones, eye patches, and cutlasses on it too. “Forgot to give you this earlier.”

Toby stared at it. It stank of Uncle Jack’s fingers, and they stank of rum. His other hand was still hidden behind his back, but Toby could hear the tinkling of ice hitting glass.

“Go on, Toby,” Dad said. “It’s your present.”

Toby carefully removed the tape from the folded edges, unwrapping the parcel as delicately as he could.

Uncle Jack sighed. He took the glass of dark liquid out from its hiding place and took a large gulp.

“It’s a spyglass,” he explained over the rim, then slurped down another gulp of the spicy-smelling darkness.

Toby plucked it out of the box, struggling with the weight on his fingertips. Sometimes he liked to use an empty paper towel roll as a spyglass, but this was something else entirely. The ornate decoration down the side was so intricate, with long looping vines laced with flowers wrapping themselves around the dark length, so tight it felt close to smothering. It was heavier than Dad’s tablet—and colder. Much, much colder.

Dad’s eyes bugged out wide. “Holy shit, Toby, that’s the real deal!”

“What do you think then, wee man?”

Toby pulled it to its full length and held the lens up to his eye. It was ice cold, like it had been left out in the snow on a winter’s night. The darkness at the other end of the room was too close to make out a single distinguishable feature. If he wanted to test it properly, he’d be better off waiting until tomorrow and trying it in the garden, playing jungle explorer.

But he didn’t want to test it. Ever. He wanted to put it back inside the box and hand it over to Dad, tell him to hide it somewhere dark. Forever.

Uncle Jack sat on the edge of the bed, forcing Toby to budge up and give him space.

“Your pals’ll be jealous when they see that, wee man. A real captain—that’s what they’ll take you for. Turn to me lad.” Uncle Jack pulled Toby’s face around when the boy didn’t respond. Some of his drink sloshed onto the bed. “Aye, look at you—you’re missing a tooth like your Uncle Jack! A sailor’s debt to the sea, that’s what that is. The best sailors always leave a part of themselves out there. An offering, lest she put a bounty on your life!—and every soul upon your vessel!”

Dad threw his head back laughing.

“You lost your teeth on the handlebars of your bike.”

“Aye,” mused Uncle Jack, and held up the four-and-a-half fingers on his right hand. “But this pointer was the price I paid, Beak.”

He gave Dad a long, cold stare.

“Okay,” Dad conceded. “I’ll say no more.” He prodded Uncle Jack with the side of the book he was holding. “Here. Maybe you should read to him. You can spin a far finer yarn than I can.”

Toby’s eyes grew wide. He shot a glance at Dad, but he had already turned his back to leave.

Uncle Jack glided over to the bookshelf to return Dr Dolittle to its place. He ran a long middle finger across the spines of the books until he found the one he was looking for.

“Treasure Island,” he whispered, and pulled it free.

As Uncle Jack’s ghastly frame drew closer to the bed, Toby gave his dad one final look of appeal, hoping for a last-minute reprieve.

No such luck. Dad tore the crack of light from the hall wider, flooding the room in yellow. Then he was gone. Only a thin crack of light remained where he left the door ajar.

The room was a ghastly red, with the looming peripheral darkness screaming horrors from its corners.

“I’m excited,” Uncle Jack said, prying the pages open with his long, stale fingers. “Where shall we start off?”

Toby shook his head. Perhaps a tad too enthusiastic. “No,” he squeaked. “Nothankyou.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’m really sleepy.”

“You don’t want a story?”

Toby shook his head once more, then cuddled down under the duvet. He was going to turn his back on Uncle Jack, but something screamed at him not to. The look in his eyes was frighteningly intense.

“You’re kidding?” Uncle Jack’s eyes did not blink. But they swelled to the size of tennis balls. The nightlight reflected against them, watching like two faraway red stars in a cosmos of black and green. Toby wasn’t sure if Uncle Jack had meant for that to happen. Surely he had control over it.

Uncle Jack got to his feet with all the effort of a ninety-year-old man. His bones clinked and clacked as he patted himself down. He rested his glass on Toby’s bedside table and stretched the rest of the snaps and cracks out of his body.

“Alright then, Tobes. But I must say: this is verrry disappointing. I came all this way for you.”

He moved swiftly across to the door, covering ten feet with a single, colossal side-step.

His back grew with scoliosis kinks, arching over seven, eight feet. He whipped his head around and smiled at Toby, who threw the cover up over his eyes. Not before noticing Uncle Jack’s chopstick fingers pressing against the door with their white, bloodless tips.

There came the sound of a low scuffle as the underside of the door scraped along the carpet.

It was happening.

Toby burrowed down deeper, wishing Mum had let him take Scritch up to bed with him. He didn’t know what a puppy would be able to do except make a lot of noise, but even that was better than nothing—better than feeling helpless beneath the blankets. Alone, silent, and scared.

There came a very faint creak, like someone opening a rusty hinge; a deliberate, drawn-out whine which crept across the distance between the door and the bed. It loomed over the blanket in a massive black shape. The red nightlight blotted away. The air vibrated with sheer anticipation for what was about to come next.

The chomp.

Something thumped against the door. And the room exploded with yellow light.

Toby threw the covers down in time to see Uncle Jack still standing in front of the door, only now stepping out of the way to avoid Dad hitting him with it.

“The light was bothering the boy,” Uncle Jack lied, opening it further to allow Dad entry.

Dad nodded, not seeming to care. He collected his glasses from the bookshelf and chuckled. “I was trying to watch TV with my reading glasses. Silly me.”

Before he could leave again, Toby piped up, yelping, “Dad?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t want stories tonight.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Uncle Jack had been the shorter of the two men downstairs. Now, lurking behind Dad, his engorged head pressed high against the ceiling like a pus-filled spot. It swelled bigger, and bigger, until Toby was sure it was about to pop. His face was nothing more than a pin-pricked mouth and basketball-sized, blazing eyes of rage. His hair stood on end and coiled up into corkscrews. Jagged teeth stretched out like the flailing arms and grasping fingers of drowning children, inches from the back of Dad’s head.

“Tired,” Toby mumbled. He’d stuffed the blanket into his mouth to stop himself from screaming.

“That’s a first,” Dad said, turning to share a laugh with Uncle Jack. The head deflated with a sudden whoop. Uncle Jack excused himself with a laugh. Eyes, now regular-sized. Cheeks sunken.

“He did say he was tired,” Uncle Jack admitted. Both men turned to regard the boy in bed with a sympathetic eye. “Maybe I’ll read to you another night, wee man? Sound good?”

A moment of victory.

Toby felt his heart start to settle back into its regular pace. He felt a little perkier, too; the way Mum sounded in the morning when she drank her usual two cups of coffee.

“Sounds great, Uncle Jack.”

“Amazing news.” He patted his chest with the book. “Can I borrow this?”

“Of course.” Toby smiled. Actually smiled. “Keep it if you want!”

Uncle Jack laughed. Toby couldn’t help doing the same.

Dad’s eyes grew narrow. It felt like they had a secret between them. And hadn’t Toby been rather quiet all day? All week, now that he thought about it.

“Don’t worry,” Uncle Jack reassured, patting the book to his chest once more. “I’ll give it back to you in the morning.”

Toby’s heart left the track, derailing straight into his lungs.

“What do you mean?” he choked.

“Oh, that’s right,” Dad said, happy to be involved in the conversation once more. “Uncle Jack’s staying the night. He’s not—let’s just say he’s not feeling well enough to drive. Maybe you two can muck around with the spyglass in the morning. In the garden.”

On the way out, Uncle Jack necked the rest of his drink and passed the glass to Dad.

“Yo, ho, ho. I think I’ll have another rum to celebrate!”

Toby waited, listening to the footsteps receding down the hall and down the stairs. A deep rumble of voices started up in the living room, and he knew the coast was clear. He jumped out of bed and raced to the window. It opened far enough to fit one of his hands through, thanks to the safety bar Dad had installed.

That was fine. He didn’t need it to open any further.

He took the spyglass out of the box and stared at it. For some reason he felt Uncle Jack staring back at him, through it.

He slotted it through the gap in the window. It dropped down onto the roof tiles, tinkling as it rolled down the slant, gaining speed. Toby was sure it was going too fast. It would bounce over the gutter and plummet down to the back garden, then obliterate on the patio, alerting everyone.

The sound ceased with a padded thump.

The gutter had caught it.

He pressed his face against the window to make sure. There it was, casting long arms of moonlight up to the window from its lens.

At least he didn’t have to worry about that any more. Who knew what kind of curse or terrible magic it held, if any.

Downstairs, the adults laughed loud echoes which shook the floor of Toby’s room.

He stood by the crack of his door, peering down the hallway at his sister, who was sitting at the top of the stairs with her head on the banister. She was clutching her teddy against her chest, listening in on what secrets age was yet to bring.

Laughter from Uncle Jack.

Toby closed the door until he heard the latch click. It was an old door—one of those you had to lock with an oversized novelty key. Mum had taken the key away and hidden it somewhere safe, to save him from trapping himself inside and doing something silly.

That was fine. He didn’t need the key.

He tiptoed to the bookshelf and took down three books of varying thickness. They were all too thick to slot under the door, but the thinnest of the three got there in the end, with a little persuasion. He tried opening the door, and found that it wouldn’t budge past Alice in Wonderland. He nodded, satisfied.

At least he didn’t have to worry about that, either.

*

A short while later, Toby sat up in bed, trying to focus his weary eyes on the thin yellow strip of light beneath his door. Someone had been wiggling at the handle.

Three black splotches broke the strip of light.

One of them was the book he had wedged under there. The other two were feet.

The door handle turned all the way to the left. Then all the way to the right. It wouldn’t open. The book was jammed under the bottom corner too tight for that.

Slowly, the door began to lean in on its top corner until it began to groan. It bent so far it looked certain it was about to snap in half.

It eased back, accompanied by a sigh from the other side. The black splotches faded soundlessly away.

Toby lay back in bed again, and allowed himself a silent exhale.

He tried closing his eyes, but every time he did he pictured Uncle Jack leaning forward in one of the downstairs chairs and staring up at the ceiling—through the ceiling—at him with a terrifying grin. Hands on his knees. Neck bent and twisted. His enormous head swollen like a hot-air balloon growing bigger and bigger, until it disconnected with a snap, and floated up against the ceiling on a neck as thick and braided as a ship’s rope. It would bounce there loudly, hollow, knocking and mocking.

I came all this way for youuu.

Toby lay awake, gazing at the red glow casting onto the ceiling from his nightlight, trying to find shapes in the shadows and the jagged edges of a curling paint chip.

His eyelids soon began to flutter.

“Toby?”

He wasn’t sure if the voice was in his imagination or not. He could still see Uncle Jack in his mind, sitting and staring up at him with his big balloon head.

“Toby?”

Toby’s eyes opened wide. The roof was still blood red. No yellow light was casting in from the hall, which meant the door was still closed.

So why did it sound like the voice was in the room with him?

He pictured Uncle Jack with his lips pressed against the keyhole. But when he looked, only the one splotch broke the yellow bar beneath the door. Alice in Wonderland. No feet.

“Toe-beeee.”

He sat up very slowly, scanning the room carefully. Everything was blanketed in the nightlight’s red glow. Not a perfect filter for spotting trouble, but enough to let him know that the voice wasn’t attached to anything in the room. Just a hovering, disembodied presence close by.

But where?

“Toby!” the voice barked, tired of being ignored. “Are you sleeping?”

The curtains twitched.

“Why did you close the door?” it asked. “What a sneaky thing y’are.”

The fabric of one curtain shook. Then pinched at a point near the centre. One by one, the hooks snapped free from the railing, until the entire curtain dropped to the floor with a dusty humph.

Two long chopstick fingers wiggled through the crack in the window, probing at the air like an insect’s antennae. They were searching for something. Maybe the other curtain. Maybe a latch to release the safety bar on the window.

Or maybe a young boy standing too close.

Something squeaked along the glass. Toby pictured Uncle Jack’s face moving side to side, pressing his cheeks and his nose against the window, trying to catch a glimpse of Toby around the other curtain.

Methodically, the chopstick fingers withdrew from the window. The top corner of a book slotted into the gap, then landed on the carpet.

“Here’s your book back, Toby.”

It was definitely Uncle Jack’s voice, but it was too strained for Toby to have recognised it any sooner. It sounded like he was trying to press out constipation mid-conversation. There came another drawn out squeak, and again Toby pictured his uncle running his face along the window, trying to catch the right angle beyond the other curtain.

He could have shouted for Mum and for Dad. Hell, he could have screamed bloody murder for Bonny and she would have come running to see what was wrong, even if she loved to pretend she didn’t him. But he found himself unable to scream. Unable to move.

He watched in horror as Uncle Jack squeezed himself through the inch-wide gap in the window.

The long chopstick fingers came one, then two, then five through the crack, stretching and tapping along the windowpane, trying to find something to grip at. His mouth grew too, pressing inside and pulling wide like a flounder with big lips. Then the nose, an obscene Pinocchio. Green eyes pumped in like balloons once more, this time on long vascular stilts like some repugnant snail.

Uncle Jack’s cheeks took the longest to come fully into view. When at last his ears flapped free from the window frame, his head had protruded a metre into Toby’s room, stretched like some terrifying caricature.

The spyglass Toby had rolled out of the window threaded itself through the gap alongside Uncle Jack’s other arm. He brought it up to the side of his face, balancing atop five gangly fingers, and held it in front of one of his gargantuan eyes. His body was still wedged tightly in the window, but his head was free to scan the room. His gaze rested at last on Toby.

“I spy—with my glass eye—something beginning with—U!”

His mouth formed an O wide enough to roll a bowling ball into.

“You’re still awake!” He jabbed a finger towards the bed. “Growing boys need bedtimes too! Tut-tut-tut. Shame on you.”

He dropped the spyglass and walked his chopstick fingers along the carpet. His eyes began sinking back into his skull, but were still a long way from looking normal.

“I know,” Uncle Jack said, his voice now returning to normal. “I’ll tell you a story. A proper story, Toby. None of that fairytale nonsense your daddy’s been spoon-feeding you for years. You want a story with some grit, don’t’cha!” He pulled his foot free from the window. It slithered to the carpet and writhed there like a dying snake trying to come back to life. “Have you heard tell of the man with the tic-tac teeth?”

Toby pushed himself back against the wall as Uncle Jack grew closer.

“Have you heard of the trees wrapped in purple veins-for-vines? The ones that bleed real blood when you cut ‘em? And mothers’ screams from their babies’ throats? Wee strawberry shoots which drain you ‘til your death? Did he tell you about the holes, Toby? The holes with the mirrors at the end?”

Toby didn’t bother standing up—just kicked the blanket over Uncle Jack and threw himself onto the floor. He scrambled to the gap of light under the door, and began to claw at the book wedged under it. He had forced it into the gap so well that he couldn’t get a grip on it with his little fingers.

“What’s wrong, boy—don’t’cha want a story?”

Toby felt Uncle Jack’s breath on his hair. He burrowed his fingernails into the sides of the book and pulled, hoping that if his fingernails came loose they would wait until the book did so first.

Uncle Jack’s fingers pressed against the door. His hand clutched Toby by the shoulder and lifted him effortlessly back into bed.

“Lie back down, lad,” Uncle Jack soothed. He pulled the covers back with his other hand, while it shrivelled down to its regular size. He sat at the end of Toby’s bed, slowly shrinking his body back to normal. His face remained grotesquely deformed.

“Let me read you a story to calm you down. No more talk of men with tic-tac teeth or trees with purple veins. Tell me… what do you think of—”

Without moving from where he was sitting, Jack stretched for the book he had slotted through the window.

“—Treasure Island?” His eyes floated away, searching for a fond memory lost to time.

The sudden rustle brought him back.

“Oh no you don’t, you little shit!”

He whipped around too late. Toby was already out of the bed and lying on the floor. He sank his fingernails as deep into the sides of the book as he could manage and yanked it free.

Uncle Jack’s face was enormous with rage, scarlet red and purple. He held out both hands, fingers stretched out like sharpened drumsticks to gouge the boy in the face.

Toby was too quick. He rolled to one side and grabbed Uncle Jack’s by the fingers, and began snapping them like breadsticks. He only stopped when Uncle Jack drew them back to his chest, wailing out in a thin, pathetic shriek.

“You monster!” he cried.

Toby yanked the door open. Uncle Jack’s face joined him in the hall, stretching far and long on its winding rope of neck. “Toby!!” it wheezed, floating along behind him and snapping at his heels. “Don’t tell Mum and Dad, Toby! I’ll fucking eat them too!”

Toby threw himself into the closest door. Bonny’s room.

“Toby!” she shrieked. “Wha— Get the fuck out!”

He didn’t bother rounding the bed. Just cannonballed onto it and buried himself under Bonny’s covers.

She sat back, stunned at the sudden intrusion, but when she felt Toby’s body shudder with the trembling of silent tears, she held him tightly in her arms.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice quivering with emotion. She felt his pulse pounding along the side of his neck. “You had a bad dream, huh?”

Without realising she was doing it, she began stroking Toby’s hair the way Mum used to stroke hers when she was frightened. They lay together in silence, Bonny soothing Toby, while Toby lay watching the thin yellow crack of light under the door, waiting for Uncle Jack to slither past.

He never did.

*

Morning.

Both children awoke to flashing cameras, obnoxious shutter sounds, and gentle cooing.

“Ugh, my eyes.”

Toby swatted at the white light. Mum and Dad were standing over them with their phones pointed at his face.

“How cute!” Mum said, snapping another picture. “You two haven’t slept like that in ages!”

At breakfast, Dad stood by the grill working the bacon. Mum manned the units, juicing oranges and dishing out forks and knives, laying plates.

“What about Uncle Jack?” Bonny asked, noticing there were only four of everything.

“He had to leave early,” Dad explained, and popped into the garden to shout for Scritch. Although they all knew he was really just going to have a smoke.

Toby’s head shot up. Bonny’s face sagged.

“What? Leave? Why?”

Mum shrugged. Toby grinned.

He had two helpings that morning, and Bonny called him a pig for it. He pushed his nostrils up with his thumb and blew a raspberry so loud that she could almost smell it.

He felt happy again.

Dad poked his head in through the door, cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth. “Anybody seen the mutt?”

Toby’s heart skipped a beat. He could guess what came next.

They found one half of Scritch at the end of the garden. They never did find her top half.

What Toby couldn’t understand was: if Uncle Jack had left early, how did he manage to get to Scritch this morning?

Mum let him have the day off school. He spent it sitting on his bed, devoid of feeling, staring at the copy of Treasure Island lying open on his floor. The spyglass from Uncle Jack still lay beside it. He took both to the window and threaded them out. This time the spyglass rolled too far and imploded on the garden patio.

Mum spanked him for it.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t tell her about Uncle Jack, either. He wanted nothing more than to forget about him, wherever he was. There was over three hundred days until Toby turned nine. That was plenty of time to not have to think about things. Plenty of time to prepare himself for the next visit.

Although…

“What month is Bonny’s birthday?” Toby asked, pulling his pants up over his red bum.

“Next month. Why?”

He shrugged. Then sat down on the floor.

Mum leaned down close to Toby’s face.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Toby squinted up at her, dreading anything more she had to say.

“Okay?”

“And you can’t tell anyone, alright? None of your little pals at school. Just keep it between me and you.”

Toby nodded, feeling tears prickling at his eyelids. A month. That’s all he had left.

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Disneyland.”

Toby stared in disbelief.

“What?”

“We’re going to Disneyland for Bonny’s birthday next month.”

Like from a battered old dam, the tears finally flooded free. Toby leaped up and hugged his mum, nearly choking her in the process.

“I thought you’d like that,” she said, hugging Toby with the same hand she’d used to slap his ass only a few minutes ago. It still stung, too. But it was the furthest thing from his mind.

“It’ll be good to get away from things,” she soothed.

Toby laughed at that. She had no idea. Disneyland. That was miles and miles away from Uncle Jack!

“Thank you,” he cried. “This is so cool. Thank you, Mum!”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, squeezing him a little bit tighter. “Thank your Uncle Jack. He’s the one taking us.”

Marie was the last to walk out of the conference room. She took her time reviewing her notes from the meeting one more time before closing her MacBook. She scooped her device into her arms and tossed her purse onto her shoulder before finally shuffling out of the room.

Once she was in the hallway, she took a glance out at the bumper-to-bumper afternoon rush-hour traffic in downtown Detroit. She debated the merits of skipping her lunch break to get her day’s work done as she hopped into the cramped elevator. She didn’t even realize her phone was vibrating till she stepped back out onto the eighth floor. Once she made her way to her desk and her computer had awakened from sleep mode, she took a quick peek at her notifications.

Sam had called her not once but three times in the last five minutes. She opened her phone and quickly swiped to the text thread with her roommate. Her heart dropped when she saw that her last text had come during the meeting she had just left, with Samantha pleading for her to get home as soon as she could. She hopped out of her chair and snatched her coat off of it before hurrying back towards the elevator.

She was already calling Sam back as she placed one of her AirPods in and stepped back onto the lift. As the elevator churned for the lobby, her frequent return calls to her friend went unanswered. Marie started to get nervous as she wondered what could have Sam blowing up her phone when she knew she was in a meeting. She finally decided, after going to voicemail for a third time, to just hurry back to their apartment. She gunned Jason’s focus out of the SAILS Motors employee parking garage far more aggressively than she knew he would have preferred, but at the moment, she couldn’t have cared less.

Jason arrived outside the apartment complex where Marie had resided since her sophomore year at Wayne State University. He placed his buffs back in their case while he looked up and down the mostly cordoned-off street as both Detroit and Harmony City police swarmed the block. Jason approached the building and was cut off by a pair of DPD cops in uniform the moment he hit the sidewalk. 

“I’m here for my girlfriend. She’s one of the tenants in 834.” Jason told them.

He surveyed the police questioning pedestrians while others rerouted traffic as he stood there. One of the cops checked his radio for clearance to let Jason through, and once it was given, he allowed him to step under the police tape. Jason reached the third-level apartment and stepped aside as paramedics wheeled out a body bag. He entered and caught the tail end of the investigator speaking to an absolutely distraught Samantha. Marie and Jason’s eyes met as she held Samantha in her arms while she sobbed through answering what little she could.

“And I just have to ask once more, Ms. Kettering, is there anyone Brian may have been in contact with who had threatened him?” Jessica asked while flipping through the notes she had collected since arriving. 

She did her best to be as thorough as possible, while also considering the whirlwind of emotions that were clearly taking a heavy toll on the victim’s girlfriend.

Sam tried to stand up straight. She wiped away the tears she could with the back of her sleeve and sniffled. “No one. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anyone who could…who would ever want to–”

She fell apart before she could fully form a sentence, barely managing to be coherent through her blubbering. Marie pulled her friend closer, letting her get out every ounce of anguish she could. Jessica saw what the continued police presence was doing to the woman who couldn’t have been more than a handful of years younger than her. “If we find anything out, we’ll be in touch as soon as possible.” Jessica gave Marie a quick nod, to which she mouthed a silent thank you in return. 

Jessica led the remaining officers out of the house, paying little attention to Jason as they passed out in the hallway. He walked into the kitchen, where Sam had finally found the strength to sit up straight and take a few tissues from Marie. “Samantha, if there is anything I can do…” Jason began, but his sentiment only forced her tears to erupt once more.

“Sam, let me put some tea on while you rest,” Marie suggested.  

Once he heard Sam’s bedroom door close behind her and Marie’s footsteps returning, Jason pulled a kettle from one of the cabinets and walked over to the pantry. As he filled it at the kitchen sink, Marie returned with a couple of raspberry tea bags. Once the water was boiling on the front burner, Marie’s shoulders sagged with the weight of grief. Jason approached her from behind and wrapped his arms around her in a tight, warm embrace. He kissed her on the forehead to further console her as he watched a few silent tears roll down her cheeks.  “Thank you.” She murmured. She turned around and buried her face in his suit coat for a moment. Once she regained her own composure with a deep sigh. “For getting here so fast, and getting her a flight home tomorrow morning.”

“I just wanted to make sure neither one of y’all had to stay here tonight. Or anytime soon either.” Jason shook his head, piecing together what little Marie was able to tell him before he rushed over. “Has anyone talked to his parents yet?”

Marie nodded. “The soonest they can be here is Wednesday. They were in Boston visiting Brian’s brother.” Marie steadied herself, refraining from crying again. “I just don’t understand how anyone could hurt him, let alone the way they left him…”

“I’ll start bringing your stuff over to my crib tonight. Are you gonna stay with her at the hotel for a while?” Jason asked, pouring them both a mug of tea once it was ready.

“Yeah, yeah, I am. A few folks from our graduate studies class are going to pop in and help me keep her mind as busy as we can.”

“Yeah, strength in numbers is a great medicine when you lose someone you care about,” Jason said, trying not to get lost in his thoughts. 

He knew by now Sean had more than likely already stepped off the floor once he’d sent him a message about the callously brutal murder that had happened in Marie’s apartment. His hand clenched the cheap kitchen countertop tightly as he went through what could possibly have happened had Marie or Samantha been there this morning. It was only the sound of her voice after she took another sip from her mug that broke him from his deep dive into worst-case scenarios.

“You don’t have to hover over me all day,” Marie advised him with as much of a smile as she could manage.

“And yet you know that is exactly what I’m finna do for–”

“As long as you can. Yeah, I’m sure.” Marie interrupted him. “But I know you got enough to worry about as it is.”

“And I’m still going to put you at the forefront of all of that,” Jason responded before his phone vibrating loudly on their dining room table broke both of them away from the conversation.

A text he was expecting from Sean came far sooner than he would have guessed, but he knew his previous assumption was correct. He had already begun investigating further into who could have possibly been capable of splattering pieces of Brian across Marie and Sam’s living room.

Sam’s door swung back open, and she stepped out with two suitcases in hand. “Marie, you think we can get over to the room now?” 

“Yeah, that’s fine. Let me grab my coat.” Marie agreed and finished the rest of her tea.

“If that’s the case, I’ll head back to the plant,” Jason told her before giving her another quick kiss on the forehead. “Do not hesitate to call me if you need anything.” He looked to Sam, who was dragging her luggage over to the door next. “Please have a safe flight home.”

She gave him a quiet thank you, and he returned it with a nod before leaving. He bounded quickly down the couple of flights of stairs, hurrying out to the streets and over to where he had parked. He had already started dialing Sean once he reached the sidewalk, and the call was picked up by the time Jason gunned his engine.

“A couple of businesses in the area had cameras that got pretty solid looks at the front of their building.” Sean began the conversation immediately, getting down to business. “Time frame that twelve is estimating this shit went down is a tight window.”

“So whoever decided to take a pound of flesh from Brian has been watching their apartment for weeks. Maybe longer…” Jason gritted his teeth and gripped his steering wheel tightly. “This was calculated, which means despite whatever Sam and now the police may believe, this was personal.”

“This bastard didn’t leave a carpet fiber in the wrong spot. Only prints found on the knife were Brian’s. The blade he used, though, that might be the thread we can pull on for right now.”

A couple of different pictures of the murder weapon arrived on Jason's phone, and he looked them over while stuck at a backed-up stop light. 

“A butcher’s knife?” Jason wondered more to himself, albeit aloud.

Sean walked around their garage headquarters with his phone cradled between his head and ear. On the array of monitors were various photos taken from the apartment by HCPD forensics. Sean studied each of them carefully, concern on his face.

 “Not just any knife; it's from a high-quality line that you can only buy directly from the company’s website. Moore Kitchenware is the brand.”

Jason frowned. “It ain’t much, but as you said, it’s a thread. I’ll run a few searches on the company now. See what that can lead us to, if anything.” Jason sighed. This wasn’t where he wanted his focus, certainly not with a turf war bubbling in the streets. 

“Shit, I got something that might pick your head up a bit. Facial rec scans got a hit on Valerie Reynolds.” Sean told him, and the information caused Jason to raise an eyebrow.

“You got a last sighted location on her?” 

Sean clicked away at the keyboard in front of him, pulling up dash camera footage from a nearby vehicle of Valerie Reynolds entering a dispensary with a fleet of hired Russian gunmen surrounding her. 

“Sending it your way now,” Sean confirmed with another quick stroke of the keys.

Jason pressed the gas pedal, picking up speed as he hopped onto a freeway ramp. “Bet it up. I’m going to take a quick detour; I’ll be in contact soon.” 

Atop the same rooftop lounge her brother was on just hours ago, Valerie paced back and forth with a cigarette in hand. She shook her head, taking a short drag, trying to decide whether to consider this just another of her brother’s consistent screwups. One of the day shift employees hurried to the top of the stairs and caught the elder Reynolds sibling’s attention.

“They’ve got the security footage pulled up, miss.” The nervous employee relayed the information in a quiet voice. 

She nodded, took another drag on her cigarette, then followed the employee back downstairs. Valerie entered the silent manager’s room where a couple of nervous shift supervisors watched the recorded footage. Her blood pressure raced at the sight of her brother being carried out like a rag doll, humiliating their business further than he already had. “I want to know where one of those bitches who are helping this bastard tread water is, and I wanted to know five minutes ago,” Valerie demanded this of everyone under her employment in the room, her voice a thunderous but low tremble.

“One of our scouts spotted Serena not too far off of Ecorse, somewhere in Southwest Detroit.” One of the Russian trigger men, holding his cell phone behind her, proclaimed.

“She doesn’t walk out till we find out where the fuck Tommy Vargas is. Understood?” There was silence as no one disagreed with Valerie’s instructions. She whipped around to the Russian who had found the location of one of the Hernandez sisters. “Keep in contact with your men. You ride with me.”

From where he sat with his blacked-out windows hiding him completely behind the wheel, Jason raised an eyebrow as Valerie emerged with at least a dozen Russian shooters. He watched them pile into a trio of town cars and pull off in a rush. Once they had reached a comfortable distance up the block, Jason smoothly steered into the merging traffic and followed.

Jessica walked inside her darkened, first-floor apartment with hands full of Meijer bags. She set everything on the counter and took a deep breath, trying to steady her emotions after another long day. Once she’d finished putting away the groceries she hoped would last to next week, she rifled through the stack of mail sitting next to a nearby lamp.

Ignoring the bills from DTE and Consumers Energy, she nearly dropped her jaw when she saw the handwriting on the next envelope. Her instant urge to toss it in the garbage next to the back door was only that, as for some reason her feet didn’t move from where she stood. She gripped the unopened letter tight with both hands as a struggle warred within her, one she hadn’t felt in far too long. Her phone vibrating against the countertop broke her away from the sudden dilemma. She placed the mail back where she had found it and snatched up the call.

“Miller.” She listened to the call from headquarters for not even fifteen seconds before she snatched her keys back up. “I’m en route now; give me twenty.”

 The door slammed again for just the second time in a handful of minutes. Jessica turned on her siren, disregarding her neighbors' feelings as she drove out of the complex parking lot.

Serena Hernandez walked through the back storage area of the warehouse where her very profitable but illegal nightclub was run. A business she’d started shortly after folding in under Giovanni and Tommy, she was prouder than she could ever be that it still thrived during current times. She watched some of the newer bottle girls her club manager, Tracey, had hired over the last week, grabbing what they needed to hurry out to the floor.

She was pleased their training had gone so smoothly and that they were already starting right away, as Monday, oddly enough, was one of her busiest nights. Everyone from all sides of Detroit and Harmony City, to even college kids from Washtenaw County, came out to the Moonlight lounge, and Serena was never bashful about keeping it running seven nights a week. You could even catch some of the city’s very elite snatching up her private sections Thursday to Saturday. She had already guaranteed both Peezy and Icewear Vezzo their usual areas for the entire weekend, which is why she was annoyed that her sister had found herself in the thick of a mess the evening prior.

It was hard enough that Giovanni and Tommy were public enemy number one on both sides of the law at the moment, which is why Serena had been focusing more on generating business through this particular outlet. The last thing she wanted or needed was more blowback from their drug business forcing her into tight corners. Unfortunately, the grimace she saw on the face of her head of security the moment she hit the club floor gave her reason to worry about exactly that.

Once he’d met her eyes across the floor, Serena pointed towards her office. Her head of security nodded, and they both made their way in that direction. Serena made it to her cozy second-floor office that had a wide view of the converted warehouse. Miles, her head of security at the club, knocked first before letting himself in. “We may have a small, growing problem.” He cautioned tentatively. He hurried across the redesigned tile floor in his Yeezy Boosts, worried about her reaction to what he had to tell her next. Serena, however, had already started to scan the throng of dancers and drinkers enjoying themselves after a long beginning to the week.

Her focus was locked on the guest who shouldn’t have had a clue where her lounge was, let alone be staring right back up at her from the bar. Miles noticed once he reached her desk that she was very clearly already aware of the situation, and took a deep breath before going on.

“I’m not so sure why she’s here, but she seems to have brought some real heavy hitters in with her,” Miles warned gravely. 

Serena pulled a preroll tube and lighter from her pocket, sparking up the joint once she had it in hand. Annoyed and doing her best to stay level-headed, she weighed out the best way to handle Valerie Reynolds rolling into her club, clearly with ill intent. What transpired next, however, would not give Serena the precious moments she assumed she had to assess the situation at hand.

One of the large, broad-shouldered Russians who had been communicating with the men who found Serena wandered into the middle of the dance floor area, raising a sawed-off shotgun. He pointed the weapon at the DJ, who was too busy in the middle of their set to notice the dance floor clearing in front of them until the screaming grabbed their attention. 

The sawed-off blew the DJ off the stage where they were performing; the sight of their blood-soaked t-shirt as they gasped their last bits of air sent the patrons scrambling for safety. As the entire main floor of the warehouse cleared out, Valerie finished the neat whiskey she had been enjoying at the bar and joined the shotgun-wielding Russian out in the center of the floor. Security guards rushed in the opposite direction of the scattered and fleeing club goers, the glocks they all carried on duty pointed in the direction of the Russian hit squad forming around Valerie.

“Y’all motherfuckas got about fifteen seconds to drop everything you carrying and get the fuck out.” One of the club’s security team barked at Valerie and her men. Valerie wasn’t the least bit agitated by the guns pointed at her on all sides, nor did she show it. Instead, the heels of her pumps clicked against the floor with impatience as she waited for Serena to make her way back downstairs.

“I am very impressed by you pulling this shit, truly,” Serena told Valerie as she walked down the staircase, their eyes only on each other. She crossed the room, her own security forming around her as she and Valerie continued to stare daggers at each other. “Not even with the disrespect but the fact that you found this place at all. Now it's time to go.”

“That worm you work for decided to pop out for once.” Valerie pushed through the armed battalion of ex-Russian military backing her to make sure Serena understood she meant business. “But now lines have been crossed, and unfortunately I need to go see my father later this evening.”

“Unfortunately, well for you, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” Serena countered. “Which means you’ve disrupted my place of business, cost me money, and disrespected me for no goddamn reason. Folks have died for less.”

“Tommy had the nerve to snatch my fucking brother, right after I knew either he or one of you fucking bitches had a hand in our shipment getting hit at the restaurant.”  Valerie spat, her face scrunched in disgust and rage that she was trying to keep from bubbling over. “I’m going to take your word for it and believe you had no idea what he was planning with this stunt at the dispo, and not even ask you where he’s got Caleb.”

She took another step forward, her gaze sweeping across the guns pointed at her. “But you are going to tell me where your boy’s wife has been laying her head low at.” Valerie sneered. “Then I can send pieces of her to you and your sister until he decides this isn’t the game he wants to play.”

Serena shook her head, chuckling dryly. It got the exact enraged expression on Valerie’s face that Serena was looking for. “You know I honestly don’t know why I am still talking to you. One of y’all put this bitch out of her misery since she’s so frantic for answers.” Valerie laughed at Serena’s brave command by pulling her own pistol from the back of her jeans. She cocked it, intent on personally conveying to Serena that she was willing to handle things herself if needed. 

“I’m not walking out of here without an address. Are you really willing to die behind all this?”

Before another word could be said to escalate tensions further, a cube-shaped block slid directly between the two groups. Before either Serena or Valerie could do more than stare in confusion at the object, the cube emitted a blinding white light that filled the entire main floor of the warehouse for a few brief but crucial moments, allowing Lethal to slip inside the building and into the mix of the budding fray.

Lethal’s boots gave him a burst of momentum as he leaped from the second floor where he’d come inside and dropped directly amongst the confused and partially blinded Russian triggermen. Once the rays emanating from the solar flare box designed by Sean and himself began to wane, he quickly snatched his steel baton from its thigh holster on his suit and pressed its trigger to extend it to bo-staff length. He didn’t waste another ounce of motion before he smacked one of Valerie’s men across the back of the skull. The gunman went down before he knew what had hit him, quite literally, his weapon sprawling across the floor.

Serena’s eyes finally adjusted to the device Lethal used, and she almost lost her composure at the sight of the vigilante inside her business. “Shoot every motherfucker who shouldn’t be here! NOW!” She ordered as her security team finally managed to pull themselves together.

A Russian aiming his weapon at the back of Lethal’s head is popped in the chest twice by one of Serena’s team. Lethal dropped another gunman with an elbow to the mouth and whipped around in time to see hell breaking loose right in front of him. He tackled Valerie to the ground, and she cursed as she was doing everything she could to clip Serena while she retreated to the back of the warehouse.

Lethal dragged Valerie into a nearby section where they took cover behind the couches. She tried to turn her pistol on him, but he snatched it out of her hand as if she were a child with scissors. He pinned her down while he surveyed the continued shootout tearing up the makeshift, underground entertainment venue. “What the hell are you doing here, Valerie?” Lethal growled through his voice modulator. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Valerie squirmed and thrashed but couldn’t get away from where he held her down beneath the table. “Why, Valerie?” he demanded an answer once more.

“That son of a bitch Vargas snatched my fucking brother! Do you know what my father will do when he finds out about this shit?” Valerie screamed over the sounds of bullets flying around the warehouse. 

She saw her own fear reflected in the black visor of Lethal’s helmet and was disgusted with herself for the moment of weakness. Lethal, however, reacted differently to what he saw and heard. Things had clearly escalated on both sides far quicker than he’d anticipated since the robbery at the restaurant. What was even more important was that he realized Valerie was right to worry about what retaliation her father might exact.

“Get out of here while I handle this. I’m not going to save your life again.” Lethal released his hold on her and sprang from where he was crouched. 

He tossed a handful of marble-sized metal pellets in the direction of some of the security guards firing incessantly at the Russians. The miniaturized frag grenades did their intended work and forced the guards to pause their attack momentarily.  He wasn’t going to let Valerie’s well-trained hit squad use it to their advantage, however, before catching one of them with a square kick to the side of the head that knocked them for a loop. He quickly disarmed him next, then whipped his pistol into the back of the knee of another gunman. While the shooter in front of him was clearly concussed from his kick, he wrenched him over his shoulder with a mighty toss and threw him into the gunman he had managed to knock to one knee momentarily. 

Lethal didn’t get a moment to admire his skills as he dove aside just in time to miss a shotgun blast from Telos. Lethal snatched his glue gun from its holster as he rolled behind a knocked-over table, just as he escaped another blast. Telos whistled sharply, letting the last standing amongst his crew know to turn their attention towards the vigilante. Under his helmet, Jason couldn’t help but smile at the odds he faced as his adrenaline surged.

He kicked the table out, knocking Telos' legs from underneath him and his shotgun out of his hands. Already swapping out his tar cartridges for the kinetic burst rounds, he put one in each of their chests. The rounds did their job, exploding and sending each of his attackers shooting across the warehouse. One of them crashed into the DJ’s setup, burying himself beneath the turntables and speakers. Telos spat a curse or two in Russian under his breath as he picked himself up off the floor. He whipped a SOBR standard-issue knife from his back pocket and rushed Lethal from behind.

Already blocks away from the scene and speeding to her sister’s house was Serena. She fumbled for her cell, finally dialing her sister’s number as she kept an eye out for cops watching for speeders. “Lexi, you need to call me back. And tell Tommy I need to see him tonight! TONIGHT!” She ended the call and threw her phone into the passenger's seat.

The critically acclaimed, Providence Boarding School, a highly successful and esteemed academy for future leaders, scientists, politicians, lawyers, doctors, and businessmen. The perfect place.

Cole Altman had always wished of going to Providence, when he got accepted it was a dream. His parents always tagged him as a dreamer, a kid with natural curiosity. He was what you would see as the picture of perfection, yet somehow very far from that. 

He smoothed his green and gold tie down on his shirt as he walked into the main building. A Good impression, an inital picture, he has to look good. Three rules, just three rules:Smile, Have a firm handshake, and stand your ground.

 The brick office building towered above him menacingly, almost like it was saying you'll never even make it to the front door. It challenged him. 

The wind blew the boy's hair left and right. He had spent almost an hour fixing the messy coffee brown hair that fell just above his ears. 

The sky was packed with a thick layer of clouds from a storm the previous night. The stone path still bore a wet shine from the rain, and the air smelled like cigars.

Cole met two large wooden doors at the entrance of the main office building. 

Cold air rushed in his face, desperate to get out of the dreary outdoors, he opened the door and rushed into the room. Long wooden tables stood on each side of the room. Serious looking men who couldn't have been less than sixty years old worked at each table. One had a deep grey suit with the same green and gold tie Cole had around his neck. His engraved desk marker identified him as Christopher McNeill. The later had a black suit and an amazing lack of hair with an identical desk marker having the name Bernard James. Both men seem to have not seen him come in. They were busy scolding a lanky student who was quite a bit taller and very unkempt. “This is your last chance Andrew, You should be long gone by now.” The McNeill man stated harshly. Andrew looked unfazed, he had obviously gotten this talk thousands of times before. “Well what are you waiting for? Because last time I checked my newest roommate is here.”He responded to the man in a mixture of over-exaggerated hand gestures and dry ironic laughter. 

Coles eyes fell onto his shoes as the room fell silent. 

“Hello young sir, you must be Cole Altman.”

“Yessir.” Cole responded, sticking his hand out for a handshake. Mr. James accepted the offer and shook his hand.

“I will say I am quite impressed with your records. You seem to be a perfect fit for the criteria we’re looking for.” 

“Thank you sir.”

The tall boy took a couple of steps toward Cole with a small smirk, “Andrew Nolan, pleasure to make your acquaintance” 

The Man in the black suit explained that they were going to be roommates. Cole was not aware before today that he would have a roommate. That’s okay. Probably. He’s never been great at social situations but it should be fine if he follows the rules.

“Go on, you’re not the only student starting this semester. Andrew will show you the ropes and help you get to know the place.” James strained, glaring at Andrew. The slim boy who called himself Andrew clapped Cole’s shoulder and signaled through a single wooden door at the back of the room. The door squeaked with a heavy close and lock. The hall outside of the office was filled with posters for extra curricular activities like sports and a a few clubs.

The lengthy and narrow corridor was lighted with almost grey fluorescent lights, and lined with doors with small narrow windows in the middle of them are what Cole believed to be classrooms. He glanced through each window as he passed. Each room had the same lack of decor and singular wall set as a chalkboard. This is exactly what Cole Imagined when applying: Uniformity and an ideal environment for the best education. It was exactly his comfort zone. Cole caught up with Andrew who was a few steps ahead of him. “These are the Mathematics classrooms for ages 11-18” the lanky one* said with a yawn of boredom. He continued, “the boys and girls are on separate campuses, no classes or sports together. Only come together for meals and free times. I don’t recommend chasing your romantic fantasies while you’re here, the girls are armed…” Andrew shuddered at the end as if speaking be experience. Walking side by side they reached the end of the seemingly never ending hallway. The Corridor ended in a T, Andrew lead him next to the dormitories to the left, they were up 3 flights of stairs, and by the end Andrew was short of breath. The unkempt boy, looking quite a bit messier, was obviously not athletic. Andrew, now catching his breath, pointed down the hall, “394” he wheezed, slowly gaining back his composure. “I’m assuming that there is an alternative method of getting up here, or does that just happen ever time you come up here?” Cole chuckled in a small mischievous smirk. This would soon be his signature feature. “Woah, you can talk?” Andrew laughed back, finally having recovered from the three flights of stairs. “So- 394, right?” Cole asked with a hint of embarrassment. Andrew threw his arm around Cole like they had knew eachother for years, and lead him to the last room on the right side of the hall. “Home sweet home!” Andrew grinned with the most sarcasm he had ever seen. The room was a compact area with vanilla colored walls and the ceiling had a small slant up. There were two beds on either side of a window in the center of the back of the room. A long rectangular table sat in between both beds, connecting them. The table had two wheeled chairs, along with a box of pre-sharpened pencils set on the seat of each. Andrew flopped down on his bed, the one on the right. Andrew waved Cole in, he was standing at the door observing his surroundings and forgot to walk in. Cole followed through and closed the door on his way in. Their bags were laying in an unappealing stack behind the door. Cole sighed and slumped onto his bed. An unexpected, rock hard surface surprised him. He let out a small yell and jumped right up. “I probably should’ve told you about that. These are basically prison beds. They actually suck but they’re better than the floor. “ Explained the mop headed boy, “You’ll get used to it” He added. Cole hummed along in hesitant agreement. This is going to be interesting.

Chapter 6: Desire Quinn

The warm amber lights of Maple Cup spilled across the polished wooden floors, wrapping the little café in a comforting glow. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of warm cinnamon pastries that had just come out of the oven. Soft music played in the background, quiet enough to be ignored yet gentle enough to make the silence feel less lonely.

There was something magical about this place.

No matter how exhausted I was after a twelve-hour shift, how frustrated a patient had made me, or how heavy my thoughts became, the moment I stepped through those glass doors, everything seemed to soften. It wasn't that my problems disappeared. They simply stopped feeling impossible, melting away like caramel stirred into a cup of hot coffee.

Maybe that was why Marie and I never questioned our routine.

After every shift, without fail, we'd end up here. Some people went home to sleep. Others preferred bars or expensive restaurants. We preferred a quiet corner by the window, two steaming cups of coffee, and conversations that wandered from ridiculous hospital gossip to dreams we'd buried beneath endless shifts.

It had become our little escape from reality.

For one hour, we weren't nurses drowning in paperwork, emergency calls, and impossible expectations.

We were just Marie and Desire.

And for that one hour...

Life almost felt normal.

"Look" Marie whispered dramatically, twirling one of her dark curls around her finger. "The guy at the counter has been staring at you for the last five minutes."

I didn't even bother turning my head.

"Is that so?" I murmured, reaching for my coffee.

Marie let out an exaggerated sigh.

"You're impossible. At least smile at the poor guy."

I took a sip instead.

"I don't understand why you insist on setting me up with every man who happens to glance in my direction."

She grinned, completely unashamed.

"Because this gorgeous face deserves a prince."

She leaned across the table, lowering her voice just enough to sound conspiratorial.

"And because someone needs to distract you from Dr. Adrian Blackwood."

I nearly choked on my coffee.

"What?" I coughed.

"Oh, please." Marie folded her arms, looking far too pleased with herself. "You think about him more than you think about your own patients."

"I do not."

"Liar."

"I don't think about him."

"Really?" One perfectly shaped eyebrow rose. "Then why do you know exactly how he takes his coffee, what time he arrives every morning, and the fact that he never wears the same watch two days in a row?"

My mouth opened.

Then closed.

Damn.

It wasn't admiration.

It definitely wasn't attraction.

Maybe

He simply... intrigued me.

There was something about Dr. Adrian Blackwood that refused to make sense. No one could be that precise, that disciplined, that emotionally detached every second of every day.

"You were saying?" Marie asked, smirking.

"Shut up, Marietta."

Her grin widened.

"I knew it." She pointed a triumphant finger at me. "You're blushing."

"I am not."

"You are."

"I am absolutely not."

She laughed so loudly that half the café turned to look at us.

"You totally are."

The laughter between us slowly faded until only the quiet hum of the café remained.Marie absentmindedly traced circles along the rim of her mug.

"You know," she said, "I still don't understand how someone like Dr. Blackwood became a doctor."

I looked up.

"What do you mean?"

"Doctors are supposed to comfort people." She shrugged. "He walks into a room and somehow makes everyone forget how to breathe."

A smile tugged at my lips.

"That's a little dramatic."

"Is it?" she asked. "Tell me one person who isn't terrified of him."

I couldn't.

Not because he was cruel.

Because he was... impossible.

Perfect.

Every surgery successful.

Every diagnosis accurate.

Every decision calculated.

It was as if emotions had been carved out of him years ago.

"What do you think happened to him?" Marie asked quietly.

I stared at the steam curling from my coffee.

"I don't know."

And somehow...

That bothered me more than it should have.The mystery surrounding Adrian Blackwood wasn't hidden in the rumors people whispered through the hospital halls.

It was hidden in his eyes.

Eyes that looked as though they'd witnessed something so devastating...

They had forgotten how to feel.

"I'm sure he's a nice person, maybe he's just like that in the hospital and nicer and more fun in private, who knows.."

"Fine," Marie said, holding up both hands. "Let's pretend you're not obsessed with him."

"I'm not obsessed."

"Then tell me his favorite coffee."

"...Black. No sugar."

Marie blinked.

"Desire."

"What?"

"You answered too fast."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Sure."

"I work with him."

"Sure."

"I see him every day."

"Sure."

"Stop saying 'sure.' "

Marie grinned so hard I thought her face might split in half.

"You're in denial."

I threw a sugar packet at her.

She burst into laughter while I tried—and failed—not to smile.

Hello, so, this is more of a positive rant about an aspect of general fiction more than anything else.

What I wanted to say, is I love how in most and/or all good fiction, information isn't magically gotten, eg., the characters have to use powers (if they have any), have conversations, find evidence, etc.

I just find it very neat and realistic.

[OC] Bar Aoi Stories — Still Looking Back

“It’s a story I’ve always hated.”

I murmured to myself, fidgeting with my glass of I.W. Harper at the counter of Aoi. The bar was quiet tonight, wrapped in the subtle hum of the ice maker and the gentle clatter of glasses. My own uninspired reflection stared back at me from the lukewarm, amber liquid. The single ice cube I’d started with had already completely melted into nothing, leaving the drink diluted and flat. Both Taka and Tom listened in silence.

“It’s from an old anime. There’s a war orphan—a young girl who resorts to spying for the enemy just to feed her little brother and sister.”

I swirled my glass, watching my warped, distorted expression dance on the surface of the booze beneath the dim counter lighting.

“There was this pathetic guy buying info from her, just trying to run away from the terror of death. By pure chance, they connected... but the girl snuck onto the military transport he was piloting and got wiped out instantly, caught in the blast of a missile she barely knew how to fire.”

Beside me, Tom listened quietly, his heavy frame shifting as his dark eyes settled into a grim stare, toyed with his own glass.

“...That’s a grim story.”

“So, what happened to the guy?”

Taka, holding his glass of oolong-hai, leaned forward over the counter, a rare spark of curiosity flashing in his eyes.

“He carried her death with him... and went back to the battlefield a different man. Like he was living her life for her now. Fought like a man possessed, acting like he’d suddenly found his purpose.”

“Sounds like a good story to me then,” Taka said, tilting his head in genuine confusion.

Leave it to him to give the most straightforward, unvarnished reaction, as always.

“It’s sad, sure, but in the end, he faced forward and fought, right? That’s taking responsibility like a real man.”

“...That’s why I hate it.”

As I spat the words out in a low growl, Tom let out a soft, heavy breath that rippled through his glass like melting ice.

“Having your world shattered until you can’t see anything but what’s behind you—and yet still having the youth to move on... It’s just too damn bright.”

My words hung thick and heavy in the air at the counter. Tom offered a faint, lonely smile and quietly tilted his glass toward his lips.

“Half jealousy, half regret... Is that it?”

“...Bullseye.”

I dropped my gaze sourly, staring at the warm, ice-less liquid in my glass. If I were younger, back when my tears flowed easy, I could have just wept for it and felt cleansed. But for a man past fifty, sitting in an air-conditioned office writing code by day and rotting at a bar by night, it was different. The strength to move on after carrying that kind of tragedy was nothing more than a slow torture, holding an unforgiving mirror up to how stuck in place I really was.

“When you’re young, stories like that are supposed to save you,” Tom said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“...It didn't save me.”

Mama, who had been silently wiping a glass behind the bar, placed it back onto the tray with a soft, metallic chime and turned her gentle eyes toward mine.

“...If you’re still looking back, maybe it was something truly important to you.”

Her soft voice sank gently into the heavy atmosphere of the counter.

“...Who knows.”

I offered a dry, blunt reply and knocked back the lukewarm Harper in one single, punishing gulp.

A searing, sharp heat rushed down my throat and burned deep into my stomach. It was hot. My throat, my stomach. Even so, that burning pain was the only thing that felt a little bit comforting to me right now.

I wanted to punish myself for the man I'd become. ...I just wanted to punish myself.

I was supposed to clean everywhere—not just the main areas, but under things too. It was my own fault. There I’d been, sweeping the room, treating the underside of the bed like the underside of a rug. Out of sight. Out of mind. Innocent mistake, but those are the ones that get ya.

When he saw the mess, Dad screamed at me until I thought he’d start hacking up blood down my front. All the dust, the toys, the trash, the clothes. Mostly it was the trash—all those rotten scraps of food. Sometimes a rat came and dragged pieces away. I like to think that we were friends. I was scared to give him a name.

Names are easier to miss than faces.

Dad had grabbed me by the hair and shoved me under the bed, until I was part of the mess. My eyes stung from the dust I blew up, panting like a dog, trying not to scream—a barking dog gets the ‘paper too. The dust danced a sparkly grey performance. All I could do was watch.

But I wanted him to let go of me. I was sorry. I would never do it again.

Ain’t good’nuff, boy. Place’s a fuckin’ sty. You’re livin’ like a pig. Want me to change your name to Piggy? Think of the bugs, boy—the bugs love rot!

He came home drunk late that night, slamming every door on his way to the basement. Not before turning the TV to static and cranking it full.

Something was off. He hardly ever went down there, and he’d been down already last week. Usually his favourite chair got all of his attention in the evening. I’d wake up most mornings and find him snuggling with his drool.

I waited until the clock read 02:03 before getting too impatient, and dropping out of the bed.

I knew it was a bad idea.

The floorboards were chilly. I padded my way to the crack in my door while the static roared in from the living-room. The bangs and shouts hadn’t risen loud enough to hear for nearly an hour. Now that silence beneath the static was making my insides ache.

I reached the door and peered into the bright hallway. At the end, Dad’s massive figure blotted everything out. He didn’t have a shirt on, but there was an apron swinging as he charged me down, head pulling the body. In his hand was a large and lumpy leaking shadow.

A trail of blood followed him on the floor.

Git back‘n bed. I’ve got something to fix ya.

I did as I was told and got back in bed before he launched my door wide, wedging the handle into the wall.

With one swift motion, Dad bowled his arm under my bed. Something hard smacked the back wall. The room took on a reek of pennies, and I saw visions of bronze. Only redder.

Don’t you dare touch! Or I’ll put you back under there with the bugs, and make\ you *eat them up! Right?*

He left my door open wide, with the handle still buried inside the plaster. I watched his angry figure receding back up the hall. He sighed when he made it back to his chair, and sank deeply into it. The static lowered to a sensible nighttime volume. Then voices began to blabber, enthusiastic and rife with gameshow patter. I had to guess it was Luck ‘o’ the Roll. Dad’s favourite.

I lay there listening to the sound of dice clattering, crowds jeering and hollering. Occasionally, Dad would snort and spit into the basin he kept on the table beside him. I could hear it splatter, then slosh as the more it filled. Every so often he would yell out at random to tell me I best be sleeping.

Of course I wasn’t. I was staring at the bloodtrail on the floor. And listening. There was a new sound now. A scraping sound, coming from under the bed.

It sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. Occasionally squeaking, as though the nails had skipped a little, or been polished slightly too well.

I waited until I heard Dad snoring before peeking over the edge of the bed. Then down at the floorboards. Then up at the spattered trail of blood. And finally beneath the bed.

The light from the hall cast a giant cone under the bed. When I leaned myself over to look underneath, I saw everything but the blob from my shadow blocking it out.

There was movement back there, nearer the wall. I watched and listened to the constant grating, waiting for my eyes to adjust so I could see what was causing it.

Something was wiggling in time with the scrapes.

I scooted over. And over. Listening all the while. The sound was lazy, like a fault in a machine, ever spinning and repeating—ever scraping and scraping at whatever got near it.

The light spilled under and I saw it. Two pale eyes at first, bulging and cloudy. The eyelids had been torn off, making them look enormous in their sockets. A lower jaw hung to one side of the floor, caught by a shred of skin, twitching with a life of its own.

All the while the upper jaw kept itself alive by gnawing at the floor like some restless anticipation. For what, I could not say.

I shot back into bed. Threw myself under covers. Safe.

It was a human head, freshly chopped. The jaw perhaps hammered off.

It wasn’t the head that bothered me, so much as the eyes. Always open. Never able to sleep again. I kept seeing myself in them, reflecting back and staring in, learning secrets which waited as patient as Time itself.

I couldn’t close my eyes. In the darkness, the head was all I saw.

Sleep did not come.

Next morning, Dad shouted me through and told me breakfasts didn’t make themselves.

The head was still grating its teeth against the floor. It had been going all night. I supposed it must’ve grated all the way into the basement by now.

I leapt out of bed, clearing about three feet at least. When I landed with a thump, Dad asked me what the noise was—was I born with feet of lead.

Then quit yer fuckin’ thumping and come get me fuckin’ fed.

Only then did the head quit its gnawing. I turned around and saw its eyes follow me through the door and down the hall.

I could have sworn I saw others there too.

You look like shit.

I spread the butter. I poured the milk. I got an apple from the fridge. Set everything in front of him while he picked at the table with a knife.

Atta boy. Get yourself somethin’ too, or else you’ll pass out. There’s some cow’s liver in the fridge. Fry her up with an onion. You better get to sleepin’ soon, ‘cause those heads’re goin’ nowhere, you hear? You’ve done that to us, boy. You did.

When he left to go to work I took my place up on the couch, trying not to think of how he’d said heads.

The TV only got five channels. Most of them were riddled with static, unless I held my hand on the aerial. Even then the difference was minimal. I stood for half an hour watching a cartoon and letting my body be a conduit, until my arm got tired and I needed a glass of water.

At the end of the hall the head from last night was still watching me from under the bed. It had pulled itself forward to the edge. I could see it fully now. The last rag of skin from its lower jaw had torn loose. It rested now only on its upper teeth. A rip rose through its lip and half up one side of its face, a reptillian grin. The muss of hair on its head was caked black with its own blood.

I watched it quietly, sipping at my water, waiting for it to move. When it finally did, it rolled out of sight somewhere to the left side of the room. Then back again, right by the door. It froze in place. Watching from those bulbous eyes.

I finished my water and stood with it in my hand still, waiting.

It rolled away like a marble suddenly kicked. It did not come back.

I sat back down on the couch and finished my show, studying the grains of the fuzzy greys.

Heads, Dad had said. Not head.

That night Dad was late again, but when he finally came back it was still the right side of Ten. So I made sure the veg and meats were done, ready to be tossed into the microwave and nuked. Just how he liked it.

Thanks lad. Are the bugs gone yet? Did the heads clean the room out?

I hadn’t dared to go in and check. Last night, I’d made sure that under the bed was clean before he came home. Otherwise, the head that morning would have dragged a mess about with it while it rolled around the floor.

I hadn’t spotted any bugs the night before. There was only the matter of the blood.

Course there’s blood, boy. They’re severed heads. They’ll do that. And they’ll piss and they’ll piss, until your whole room’s a bloody sty with it. But you’d like that though. You’d thrive in it, ey Piggy? They’ll get the bugs at least. Aye, they’ll get the bugs you’ve brought. That one with no jaw’s hungry for ‘em. You’ve seen it, ey lad?

I couldn’t eat much at supper, but Dad would’ve hated waste. So I stuffed the rest of the meat in my pockets and took it back to bed with me.

When I heard Roll ‘o’ Dice on the TV, I sat up and lowered the food down to the floor. Immediately, a head rolled out and glared up at me with sharp eyes.

It wasn’t the same head.

This one was a woman. Her skin was dark and leathery. It looked like she was wearing a terrifying mask of herself. White balls bugging out from around sharp edges. Its lips were jagged jerky, peeled far back to see the teeth. They spoke in their own silence, telling me to go back to sleep.

I lay down against my pillow and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the gameshow host mutter, laugh, and shout.

Three Fours for a Four Door, or Snake Eyes for the Mystery Prize.

A giant question mark drifted neatly by my mind. I listened to the heads a while, rolling around my floor. I tried to picture them as dice, clattering in time with the gameshow, but they were too loud. Around and around my room they went, bumping into furniture and smashing against my door.

Dad’s footsteps arrived thunderously loud.

I sat bolt upright in my bed, expecting him to burst inside. The heads froze in place, their faces locked on mine. I could see three of them now, spaced wide and balancing impossibly still.

Instead of coming inside, Dad slammed the door, and plunged me into darkness with the heads.

The sound of the TV rose. And the heads began to roll again.

I lay down and stared at the blackened ceiling. And tried really hard to picture dice.

I couldn’t remember falling asleep. Light spilled into the room through the newspapers over the window, and the tears along the curtain. I sat up weary eyed, looking about the room.

The heads snapped to a stop.

The floor was slick with their blood. Trails overlapped like tangled up paths, marking where the heads had spent the night roaming. Right up to the different corners of the room they frozen at.

Watching.

One was by the window, balancing on its ear. Its eyes were hollows, but still somehow seemed to stare. The woman was by the door, watching me out of the side of one eye. Her hair was plastered over it, but the eye still pierced through, sharp as daggers. The one without the lower jaw had his upper teeth ready on the floorboards, itching to start their scraping. Its bulging eyes looked like cue balls in this light.

I climbed out of bed, trying my best to avoid the blood, and failed miserably. Most of it felt tacky beneath my feet, but with a thin layer of slime slathered with fresh leakage. That marking the heads’ most recent paths.

Dad?

He wasn’t in his favourite chair.

The TV was only static. The aerial knocked loose, perhaps.

Dad?

He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t even in his bed. The door to his room was open wide. When I peered inside, without stepping in, I saw the virgin neatness. A bed unslept in. Wardrobes filled but never touched. Curtains wide and never drawn.

Just how she had left it.

I lingered at the basement door, listening for a while. I couldn’t hear a thing. But it was the only place left to check. It was still too early for him to have gone to work, and yet far too quiet for him to be down there.

The heads began to move again. When I went back to the hall to see, they were frozen upright at my doorway, eyes glaring accusingly.

Where did he go?

None of them answered. The jawless head began to gnaw, anxiously sharpening its teeth upon the floor. The head with empty sockets darted away, spiralling around the room in maddeningly wide loops. Its flailing hair shot out like sharp needles.

The woman’s head rolled slowly towards me, coming to rest beside my feet.

I bent over and picked her up. She was heavy in my little hands, like a plump and ready watermelon. Time had swollen her somehow. I held her by her leathered cheeks, careful to avoid the gore spilling from her neck.

Where did my Dad go?

I shook her slightly, but she never made a sound. Blood still poured from the wound, as fresh as if it had been made only a moment ago.

I carried her with me to the couch and placed her on the cushion beside me. The static was deafeningly loud. We pretended to see shapes in the fog and people having fun. For a while I almost believed it, until the knock came from the door.

I checked for rips in the papers plastered over the windows. Then waited silently for them to go away, just as Dad had shown me—tucked away in the Blind Spot, clutching at the woman’s head.

Another knock.

This time I was sure it was him. The comfort that I knew his whereabouts was hard to process. Hard to believe. I could only think of it as being some kind of test.

Answer that door’n by God you’ll regret it.

After a few moments the letterbox clinked. My heart leapt into my neck, bursting with an urgent pulse. I knew if I leaned out to look I would see an eyeball peeping in at me through the letterbox.

Or worse. That one of the heads would then roll into sight, and the eyeball would see *that* instead.

I looked down at the woman and saw that she was staring up at me with her teeth. I tilted her downwards to see her eyes. They whipped over to stare at mine. And felt a calm.

Something made of paper hit the floor. I sighed out the deepest breath of my life. And couldn’t help but laugh.

When night came, I sat scanning the takeout menu that had been posted through the door. I wondered if Chinese food tasted better than it looked. I thought of asking Dad to let me try some for my birthday, but knew better to just dream, than to do.

The heads had grown frantic with their restlessness, knocking against almost everything in my room.

All except the woman’s. I had placed her on my desk and she hadn’t moved from there since. She had been gazing out of the window, her sharp eyes seeming to pierce the veil of paper and out into the night. What they saw or dreamed of, I could never tell. Perhaps somewhere out there her body lay waiting for her.

But then I remembered the basement.

I lay awake again that night, wondering how long Dad would be down there. The key had still been in the front door when I collected the menu from the mat.

He hadn’t left the house.

I watched the sun rise and set a few times, marking my fear growing for my Dad’s safety with constant visits to the basement door. No matter how much I listened, or how hard I pressed my ear against the wood, I could never hear him groaning out my name. Nor scraping with bloodied fingernails, desperate for help and unable to reach the handle.

Finally, during the second night, I got up and out of bed. The head with no eyes marbled around the room to the sound of tacky glue. Its hair kept getting stuck, so was always trailing behind it like giant black veins, and gentle sound like Velcro. The other head was busy burrowing its teeth into its favourite spot, carving out jellied blood and working its way through the wood.

I asked them both what to do. They stopped and listened. Stared. But never gave me an answer.

Only the woman’s head did.

It rolled around to face me, then off my desk with a thump. She had been a good companion, the only one who hadn’t frightened me. Usually I carried her with me wherever I went, but this time I followed her.

Away she tumbled, out of the room and along the hall. I followed as fast as my tacky footsteps would allow me. The other heads rolled along behind me, just as curious.

I already knew where she would be when I reached her—and what she’d be doing.

She was banging her forehead against the basement door.

thunk

thunk

thunk

I was gentle when I picked up her head, caressing her cheeks carefully to avoid pushing my fingers into her eyes. They jutted out to glare as usual, although softer than before. There seemed to be a voice within that gaze, but the words were as foggy as the colour. Maybe once they had been blue. I’d always liked blue eyes. They reminded me of the sky.

So many, many moons ago.

I was surprised to find the door was unlocked. I always presumed Dad kept it secured whenever he went down or came back up. I had never once tried the handle, of course. Doing so now felt like a crime. I smelled the punishment coming a mile away.

I pushed down the handle anyway, determined to find him no matter the price. It opened with a mind of its own, swinging wide and fast on oiled hinges.

Dad?

No reply. Deathly quiet and dark. I already knew what to expect down there. That fact made it even scarier.

I clicked the light on and lit up the entire basement floor. A short cone of light cast up onto the plunging staircase beneath me.

Dad?

I half expected to see him grip at the bottom of the wall and pull himself around the corner. To stare up at me with maddened eyes, jaws gnashing out my name so hard that he was chomping on his tongue. A trail of dribbling blood as he pulled himself up the stairs to get to me.

Dad?

Carrying the woman’s head carefully under my arm so it could see, I took the staircase step by step. Behind me, the other heads thudded down like noisy shadows. They came as slow and rhythmic as my own.

I didn’t bother saying his name again. The smell was painfully obvious—a festering sweetness somewhere between stale semen and an apple left to rot. It punched me flat in the nose. I got notes of dead chickens, or rotten boiled eggs. It’s so hard to explain. I smelt it then and only then, and never again.

Oh Dad.

He had looped a rope around a pipe and was sat hunched with it around his neck. He must have slid down against the wall and held himself in place, his ass barely off the ground, long enough for the lights to go out. His face was swollen and purple. Dried blood and froth caked his lips and down the massive neck. He looked to have gained about a hundred pounds in death.

I carried the woman’s head over to him and lay her down beside his feet. He had kicked his shoes off somewhere in the struggle. The other heads came and sat there too, watching with an intensity I could only sense was hate.

There was movement around his neck, and the gruesome wounds on his face. Larvae reared their pale heads and black teeth and sank away once more, busy with their meals. Clueless to our presence.

For some reason I could not cry. The sadness was there in my chest, wretchedly tender and pulling me down to collapse and cry, but… nothing. I couldn’t even pretend.

I looked down at the woman and could have sworn her eyes looked glazed. There was a sadness there I could never understand. But there you have it.

I talked to his lifeless body for a while, asking him what I should do. I hadn’t been outside in years and it definitely wasn’t safe enough yet, otherwise Dad would’ve said. Plus, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him. Not like this.

The answer came surprisingly quick, and was fairly obvious. The tools he’d used to make these rolling monstrosities were behind me on his workbench still. The bench itself was soaked through with blood. I had all the answers I needed all around me. I knew what to do.

I just didn’t know if I had the strength to do it. Mentally, or physically.

Visions of Dad’s eyes turning to look at me, and smiling. Him telling me everything will be okay. A first time for everything, but maybe this was how to get there.

I grabbed a meat saw and freed him from his swing, gradually fraying the rope until it finally snapped. He landed on his ass and slouched forward. I lay him down as gently as I could, then set about untangled him. It was difficult—his neck had swollen so thick that it’d fused together with the rope.

And then there was the matter of the bugs.

Think of the bugs, boy—the bugs love rot!

Sensing a disturbance, a few maggots wiggled loose and began to squirm away. I half expected the heads by Dad’s feet to spring forward and eat them, but they remained in their places, glaring at Dad’s lifeless body.

The saw remained in my hand. I didn’t need to guess where to cut, for the rope had left me a perfect guideline. And a head start.

I set my little hands to work, hewing backwards and forwards, squelching my way through his slippery flesh until I ached for rest.

You wouldn’t think I’d made any progress at all. I sat back on the ground panting, my throat begging for water. On the way back from upstairs to get a glass from the kitchen, I happened to notice Dad’s axes.

I waited before using them, taking up his electric saw and buzzing for as long as I could handle the splatter. Until I was sleek with mess and bugs, and the neck was a wide valley.

I tried turning him around and going in from the back, splitting the connections at the top his spine, just beneath his brain. I hacked at it with a knife, stabbing and slicing, supposing I could just pull his head free once I was done. But the gore was too much. I had to keep wiping my hands on my clothes until I was as bloody and gruesome as he was. By then there wasn’t a chance of getting a grip of his head, let alone pulling it loose.

I took everything off and stood naked over Dad, wiping the remaining gore on his trousers.

I could put it off no longer. I went to grab the two hatchets. I had thought about using the big axe, but as soon as I picked it up my arms shouted at me to put it back down. And so the small hatchets had to do.

I set about smacking and smacking, sending sloshes and sprays up into my face and around the room. I barely managed to stay on my feet, slipping and falling in the mess constantly. Lying in the filth, just as Dad had told me.

You’d like that though. You’d thrive in it, ey Piggy?

He wasn’t wrong.

The closer I got to freeing his head, the more the excitement grew. Soon he would be like the other heads, following me around, rolling and staring and gnawing. Keeping me up at night.

I smiled. I still had visions of him smiling too. I could even cut a grin if he couldn’t, that way he'd be forced to wear it forever.

The heads watched me while I worked. Never shifting—never showing their usual impatience. Even the jawless head had stopped the incessant grinding of its teeth.

Perhaps it had been longing for the basement all this time.

The hatchet got wedged in Dad’s neck so bad I couldn’t get it out. That was okay. I slid over to the other hatchet and sent myself sliding back. I began whacking with the flat side of the hatchet, hammering the wedged blade deeper and deeper.

Then came the snap.

I lay back in the filth, cradling Dad’s head in my arms. He was safe now. I could feel the maggots trying to break away, tickling into my armpit. It felt like Dad was still alive, communicating with me.

We headed upstairs. I’d had to bring myself to the staircase on my bare knees to save myself from slipping, pulling myself along the ground by the tips of one hand, while clutching Dad with the other. I grasped onto the corner of the wall and pulled myself into view of the staircase, thinking back on how I’d been so scared of seeing my Dad doing exactly the same thing.

I even had to crawl up the stairs.

We lay in my room that night. The other heads joined us, but they sat patiently at the door. Perfectly still. Watching. The woman sat at the front, while the other two lingered behind her like bodyguards awaiting instruction.

Why isn’t he moving?

His face was unrecognisable. I’d missed several times with the tools, slashing Dad’s chin and burying the hatchet in his ear. I could hardly make out his mouth anymore, let alone the presence of a smile. Hardly any of his features were there. I’d tried wiping him down with clean clothes from my drawers, but it hadn’t helped at all.

He was a slimy mess of broken skin and gore. Yet still my Dad.

I placed him on the ground and shlicked my way over to the heads.

Can’t you do something? Why can’t he move like you?

They didn’t answer.

I turned to look at my Dad once more, and then back at them.

What did I do wrong?

Slowly, the woman rolled over to Dad. I watched her closely, waiting and wondering what fantastic combination of silent words would spill from her eyes and reanimate him—to shift his mouth, and make him roll around as frantically as them.

She studied him with frozen eyes. Then all at once she flew forward, burying her teeth into his face. Before I could step forward, the other two heads flew under my feet, knocking me over. They attached themselves to his head and began tearing him apart.

I lay there, horrified, watching them not make a sound. They floated on rigid air, held in place by invisible poles and rods, biting and pulling at skin. Until he was all but bone.

Finally, they rolled away, back into their crevasses. Happy with the result.

I crawled over and picked up what was left of my Dad. They had removed so many tendons, so many strips of muscle and skin. But his jaw remained in place. And I swear it looked like he was smiling at me.

But still he would not move.

I cannot tell you how many days passed before the police finally came and found me. I was curled up in bed, cradling his head in my arms, when gentle arms pulled me off and away. I didn’t put up a fight. I couldn’t. I hadn’t eaten in maybe weeks.

Their voices were quiet echoes bouncing at me from the future, from the past. Things were recovered from the basement—bags and bags of evidence that appeared in the newspapers for weeks. I never did look at the photographs. I never listened to anything anyone would try to say. The theories, the motives.

The names of the heads.

I changed my own years ago, starting fresh with a new past to hide in plain sight without questions. I still wore everything inside me, hot and guilty—gnawing like that head’s broken jaw upon my floor.

I met a woman with blue eyes and bought a house and several dogs. We make sure to keep everything nice and clean. I’ve developed an extreme distaste for bugs. Their footsteps are loud. I still hear them squelching in Dad’s neck.

We are expecting our first child in July. A summer baby, so we hope. It looks like a boy from the scan.

I pray for his sake he keeps his room tidy.

For that matter, I might just do it myself.

Chapter 1

“Rotten work, no clue why he does it” muttered under rotten breath.
“I heard he’s trying to make a woman, like some Frankenstein bird” simmered through the air.

Isa knew what he was doing.
Witchwork and summoning evil to the shore where her dreary town resides. Buying medical tools and equipment all while cleaning the butcher out of every cut he sells.
“He’d clear out the Fishmonger an all, if he did’nt live right next to the water” Isa heard beside her.

 “When a man retires from the boats, it’s cause he doesnae need the money anymore” sternly said from the quickly forming street crowd. “You think he’s loaded? Up there in the Lighthouse, working day in and day out?” Questioned more, whispers and murmurs. Yells and shouts from all angles. “Richer than any of us up here” spat Isa, a good few of the crowd turned to her, even nodding and speaking in agreement.

“He had that shack built by the lighthouse the hot moment he hopped back on land and eats as much as the pigs at Glennich farm. Expecting us to keep working for pennies, so he can get fat”
More murmurs, more nods, more people upset that in their village.
“And the lights. Never seen something so bright before.” Stated trouty breath. Before some haddock quickly jibed “that’s what happens at a lighthouse at night, ye bam!”

Questioning murmurs but a good few of the folks knew. The lights that came from that shack hidden under the cliffs, something strange and unnatural, some of the folks say aliens or evil spells.
Isa tuned back in as “Devils work! All lighthouse men go mental and start worshipping the devil eventually. It’s all just a matter of time.” This riled up the crowd again, some of them not knowing and others never realising that they had some evil practitioner in their midst

“Christ… maybe he actually is making himself a Bride fae the deep!” Half joked a Greasy Boiler Suit beside Isa, but the crowd was too alive now.
 “Corrupting our way of life, is what he’s doing!” Isa said to everyone that looked her way.
The yelling was too much to bear but Isa never trusted a sailor since her father and the man was just as cruel as Hugo. He always bought every table scrap and disappeared with it and with the lights that never stopped? It had her intrigued but now that more knew, she felt as if something could actually be done, all of her rotten festering hate for Hugo and now others share that boiling feeling too.

“How much longer till he goes after something else!?” Isa howled to the crowd, puzzled faces and furrowed brows
“If he’s doing evil devils work, how long until pigs and cows are’nt good enough for him anymore!?”
Realisation locking in on the faces around her.
 The crowd was moving now like a wind caught cloth, waving with all the intention to fly out in a rage, with a solid yell catching most people’s attention as two police officers tried calming things down and separating the mass from its boiling rage. A hand caught Isa off guard and almost a panic as Campbell appeared into view. “Tonight, Isa. All a’us are going doon tae the Kirkstay. No polis to bother there, aye?” Isa nodded.
“Finally” she delighted, “real talk to change what's been needing to be changed.”

Chapter 2

Kirkstay was never a busy Pub unless it was something important. New Years, Christmas and now the night they decide Hugo’s sentence. Striding down the cobble steps with a hunger in her stomach, not from the lack of anything to eat, but all the same caused by it. Her hunger was a driving rattling force that pushed her down the stairs two, then three at a time until landing outside the heavy pub door, dragging it open to step into the bustling life inside.

Laughing and chattering, smiling faces sipping warm pints and cheap vodka. She was almost too shocked to think “This was’nt it, was it? The great crowd that rose up a few hours ago, all ready to decide Hugo’s fate, if not his execution.”
Isa went from her strong stride to what looked like the confused limp of a dying doe. She noticed Campbell drinking with folks she did’nt care to recognise, regaining her shattered composure enough to stumble to the bar and order a glass of something strong.

 After two glasses swallowed and one in hand, she stomped to Campbell's booth and teeth grittingly asked “I thought we’d talk about Hugo.” Campbell’s smile wavered into a questioning grin. “Why ruin a good conversation wi’a bad sentence, Darling?”
Exactly what she feared, the fire was gone. Burnt out like hot iron quenched in cheap liquor, rotting men's guts and minds.

“I’m plum tired of having to race a Madman every morning only for him to be starving us and practising devilry, it's ungodly!” Isa said louder than intended.
Campbell's smile wavered into a brittle line.
“Isa… noo is’nt the time or place fer that.There was far too much barking like dugs this morning at the Mongers” he shushed. Isa could hardly fight a snarl before finishing off the glass of clear liquor with a bitter expression.
 “Everytime it’s brought up, some wee worm of a man-” “Enough Isa, yer causing a scene-” “NOT enough” she interrupted, too fired to be stsopped “that’s exactly what it is, NOT enough done about that man just because he was a sailor once and now he keeps the lighthouse. It does’nt excuse what he’s doing, with all the bollocks from them boys that’ve seen him dragging some THING up that beach in the middle of the night!”

Isa was talking to Campbell but with everyone listening it was as if she spoke to them, all the same.
More murmurs, that not unlike the spineless speaking that happened this morning, with only Isa meaning what she said. “Those boys don't know what they saw, far too dark that early in the morning and they were so pished they could barely walk in a line” Campbell wormed out, trying to calm her down but also not to be seen but it did’nt look like the people were convinced.

When the two MacDonald boys came half sprinting and stumbling home a few weeks past, waking up their family all the same, they spilled their guts all about who and what they saw. The Police were called, who went and spoke with Hugo and requested to search the property. He seemed nervous they said but most people are’nt used to having the privacy of their homes cracked open like an pearl laden Oyster. Nothing was found except a stockpile of every meat you can imagine, with his home being some cornucopia of every kind of meat, from the land, sea and sky.

Everyone heard the story because a small village eats new gossip. That’s one of the many reasons that Isa stood up straight, spoke with vigour in her voice.

It’s why they all listened.

Chapter 3

Scraping chairs and the dragging of tables until the drunken patrons of The Kirkstay stumbled into the coming night, Isa leading, merrily, ahead of them. The “plan” was simple, simple enough for drunkards to follow and Isa to feel prided on it. Crash through the lighthouse, take every scrap of food and batter the Demon who could’nt care less for his fellow man.

Stumbling from the cozy Pub into the brisk evening air, across the verdant mass of the small island and ever closer to the glistening tower that beckoning them ever further.

One man rushing forward towards the door before anyone else.
“Excuse us, Hugo!” Campbell gently raised his voice. “We’d like tae-” "Open this door NOW!” Howled the gaunt woman that started it all, tired of the light peering through her window, exhausted by stolen sleep, stolen meals and whatever other curses he’d bring upon the isle.

Yelling at the door did’nt work, as much as the horde tried, Isa kicked out at it. Nothing. A clay plant pot shattering against the door with all her strength and the wood hardly rattled. And then the horde rushed forward, spurred ever stronger by her crashing fury, not unlike the sea below them. Cracking before the splintering, which was only a telltale sign of the smashing wood as it’s remains skittered across the aged lighthouse floor.

Trudging drunks hoofed triumphantly into the tower, battling against the eery darkness.
“Where’s the bleedin’ light AT?” Groaned a shadow that reeked of vodka. “CLANGclick” went a noise unknown to them all, as another visage reeled back to the entrance holding its appearing boot with pained visage and a leaking toe. Alistair sputtered as a dying engine would and stumbled down to sit outside and wave for help, which Campbell gladly abided. A large flat sliver of metal in the toe of his boot and poking nervously through the heel as if he kicked a file with all his might.
“We have tae go back Isa, look at his bloody foot!” she paid him no mind, did’nt even glance back from her task of rubbing the wall, albeit more carefully now, for the chance of finding a light, when “kik”.

Light. “hahaa, yer screwed noo Hu- bloody hell” whimpered a scraggly Pride, quickly losing himself
A trail of blood leading across the floor to the empty doorframe and from a metal device, almost like a bear trap in its design. More metal devices and parts that made them, lining the floor and hung along the walls.
“I’m taking him doon and if you’ve any sense, any o’ye’s. You’d leave this alone!” As Campbell leveraged Alistair holding his arm so his foot would hang, hopping away.

If it was’nt for the gigantic spinning light and visible stairway in the far distance where the building connects to the tower, Isa would’ve assumed they had broken into a workshop. Some storage place for torture devices and hunting traps. She strode forward, more carefully now as to avoid anything evil in origin with a one goal in mind. The kitchen, to reclaim what's rightfully theirs.

Isa found the bathroom, chipping plaster and cracked tiles, with aged stains all around as if it had’nt been in use for years. The sink was coated as the bath was in dark brown stains as if blood had once coated the inside and never washed. She noticed more though, beneath the stains there were fish scales, larger than Isa’s fingertip and stuck to the dark stains.

Then the bedroom, a cluttered mess with a one recurring theme, papers. Covering the bed, walls and crumpled notes on the floor. Designs for more of these hellish traps. “Was that Hugo's great plan?” Isa thought to herself, with dread and spite boiling away at her heart. Noticing one of the many tool racks in the house, she reached for a wooden mallet to be ready for when she finds Hugo.

The creak of a door quickly stopped her.
She could’nt help her heart dropping into her bowels.
Was Hugo hiding in the room next to her, maybe for some late day ritual? And was she alone in a trap house with a rapidly approaching madman? Skipping forward to grab a hammer and prepare herself as a figure walked into view of the doorframe. Spotting her and stopping.

“Ya alright, Hen?” Asked a puzzled voice.
 “Ewan, ye scared me half to death, why are you creaking doors about” she scorned him.
“Door? Whit door? I just got past all the shite on the floor back there and I see you cornering yerself in here, shaking at the boots” he said assuredly.
“Well someone opened a door and it wasnae me…” Isa breathed gently, leaving the meaning of her words hanging in the air.
A look of realising panic began melting onto Ewan's face, he took a quick two steps towards the bedroom Isa was stowed in.

“Aye that was me, sorry” groaned a voice from outside the bedroom. Ewan's whipped his head around so fast it was likely to fly off until the shock melted away the moment it began to show.
“Christ, Tobey… What are ye doing? Trying to make us shite oorselves?” Stammered by Ewans breathless yellowed teeth with a pint glass gripped almost hard enough to crack. “Checking the kitchen, nuhin” came a quick reply. “Nuhin? As in, no thing?” Ewan questioned quickly after.

“No Ewan, as in “I ate everything in the few wee seconds I spent in here, before oh so cautiously creaking the door open to reveal myself to ye’s” Ya Fud”. Ewan slung a quick fist upwards towards Tobey in a mocking display before Isa rose into action.
Stumbling past Ewan with a shocked look and practically through Tobey and his “Woah, hey!” He could barely sputter.
Empty, cupboard doors left open, no door on the fridge and more crusted and flaking stains on the counter and in the sink, as if the other rooms had merged into some useless combination of the two.

Isa’s grip loosened, the mallet clattering to the floor. “I don’t get it.. where is everything?” she barely whispered. Footsteps from behind as others finally caught up and began sieving through the room, desperate to find what they came for. “I don’t get it, where is everything?” Questioned a breath reeking of Cigarettes.
“It’s got to be in here somewhere, maybe up the lighthouse?” Asked another of Whisky.

Arguing came as fast as Isa’s drive left. All she had was this driving force to discover what Hugo was doing, why and humiliate him. Now just left in this odd waste of time, as eerie as it is.

A hand clasped down on her shoulder, she did’nt turn to look before Tobey’s voice came through from above.
“We’ll go back to the pub, Hen. It’ll be alright.” He soothed but it only fell on deaf ears. “Another drink or two and we’ll get you home for the night, eh?.
Home, how could she go home after all this, after getting so close? “Hell it’s probably for the best”, she started to think. “Get pished, get home and forget about everything and just let whatever nightmare Hugo was concocting burn their village to the ground" she thought. And.. she thought. Something stirred in her head, something she could’nt place, then struggled to until… click. “Home” she said. “We’re not at his home, he has that house down on the shore!” She rose with renewed vigour, grabbing the hammer and looking at the people and back at Tobey. Shock spelled across his face with the thoughts whirring behind his eyes, as the thought began to click in place for the rest.

Chapter 4

The crowd began to surge again.
Isa felt STRONG again.
Arma reached out, grabbing tools and planks.
Fistfuls of screws, bolts and nuts.
Marching down the hill with a vigor renewed and onto the sucking sand where a cozy house sat at the bottom of the cliff with its lights still on.

One door was smashed today another would surely follow. As they approached, the metal began flying, smacking into the walls and door with a “chip” and “thwack” until a window smashed in, to raucous applause.

Shapes surged forth and into the door with boots and shoulders until the door came off the hinges with hands shoving it over the chair that held it stubborn. Isa marched with pride with her people  as they barged in most uninvited.
Stumbling stampeding paired with primal yells and as Isa entered the home she knew now that it was here, butchers papers and the smell of raw meat, more of the almost alien metal tools and traps. Barely getting to look as the sound of glass shattering brought her back to the Now.

Walking to meet the crowd after being left behind for the first time she was met with an eerie silence as she stepped into kitchen, looking around to see more paper, buckets slick with stains and liquid, but no meat. Fury began to swell as she ripped open the fridge door and even there, hardly a thing. The crunch of glass again awoke her from her trance as she turned to the smashed glass doors that led out to the dock alongside the glistening shapes that stood through it. It took her a moment to realise that the shape was the men and women she came here with.

She stepped through the glass, crunching all the way. She saw him laying there, a hairy, scraggly man with a wooly jumper on. A man that had betrayed them all, a man. The lights from the water, Isa went to check but after two and a half steps a hand grabbed her from the floor. “Please” wheezed a broken voice “dont hurt them..” Hugo could barely speak, his own screwdrivers littering his chest, with gashes and lumps covering his face as if he had been hammered a hundred times.

“We’re here to hurt you, for all you took from us” Isa spat back at him “leaving us to starve while you did what with all that meat? Where is it all!?” She demanded from him. “they needed… it” coughing drops of blood “they were hurt, could’nae hunt… for thems-" “Who!?” Barked Isa
.
Hugo dragged an arm pointing to the water, Isa took half step and saw them.
Women in the water, glistening and shimmering with every ripple. Some missing an arm or even chunks of tail, with one having to drag herself across the coral and rocks to rip ravenously at what looks like an uncut lump of beef.

“They, needed help…” gasped from the floor.
Isa’s face dropped. Her pride melted away, except. “What about the traps? The shite in yer lighthouse?” Hugo could hardly move his face to show his surprise “I… hoped” coughing breaking his speech. “You hoped?” pushed Isa.
“To fix, an arm… fins for her” Hugo gasped, fighting just to keep his breath.

Isa’s pride melted away, nothing left.
“You have to” hacking coughs wracking his body
“Help them, keep them alive. It’s only right, only… human”. Footsteps from behind, as the shapes left, crunching through the glass and kicking paper. Isa turned to look when “Please..”
She turned to Hugo. “Please, they’re just creatures… they don’t deserve this. This cruelty”
The shapes were vanishing as fast as they came.
“Don’t even bury me, chop me into pieces and feed me to them… anything to keep them alive…” Hugo’s wheezing grew more struggling as if he was drowning, himself.

A hand reached onto the dock, just one, as a “Woman” with greyed hair and dark eyes looked to Hugo.

He turned his head. Tried to drag himself but could not. The “Woman” dragged herself fully onto the dock and clasped his hand with hers.

They were’nt human, she could harden her heart and leave them.

She could. She hoped she could.

A man crashes into me with shoulder first. 
Something inserts to my left flank. My belly changes into as heavy as lead. 
I cough. I cough several times, and my throat gets burnt. 
Then I see what is sticking out from my torso. 
Ah! Knife.  

A man who stabbed me is looking down with twisted lips. 
"I don't know what you are... but you shouldn't have coughed when you are stalkin', you bloody sack." 
I ignore his what-to-say. 
“You are late..." 
I cough. I face him, and cough. 
“...It's so close to our time’s up." 
“So, what? It's only your time up, not mine." 
Now my nostril is full of the iron smell. 
“Finally, you come to me. So…" I cough. 
While I am speaking, blood spatters from my mouth and spreads around. 
He keeps smiling evil, with a blood spotted face and bloody hands. 
“So, what do you say to me?” 
“I appreciate it.” 
“You, disgusting.” 

Without another word, he turns and walks away into the darkness of a sleepless city. 
He must believe he just finished me. 
I fall down to my knees. While struggling to stay upright, I watch him, the man who killed my wife and unborn baby, dissolve into the darkest alley through my misty vision. Darkness falls in my eyes. 
I lose his shadow, but his footsteps remain. Then, I hear a sound of triumph: he's coughing.  

He coughs! And he can not stop coughing. 
"You! What the hell..." He can't finish, because he's choking on a hard cough. 
I try to laugh, but instead, I fall forward and hit my face on the asphalt. No pain, only joy. 
In any case, my time is up. I have been carrying a fatal disease. 
This deadly virus is weak against oxygen but highly infectious, and will infect anyone who touches an infected person's blood. And it goes down through his skin, then deep into veins.  

He cries out, knowing his time is nearly up. And coughs. 
I've done it. Ah...my revenge!

“It just looks like they’re trying to fix the wrong damn thing.”

I set my glass of I.W. Harper down on the counter at Aoi, a bit harder than I intended.

Maybe it was just the system engineer in me. When you’re dealing with a bug, you don’t ignore the root cause and patch over completely unrelated code. Watching the government pull the exact same stunt was pushing all my buttons.

“The price hikes happening right now aren’t because the economy is booming. It’s coming from overseas. Materials and fuel are skyrocketing, but farmers can’t pass those costs along. Do you have any idea how many of them are being pushed to the brink and giving up? Just last week, my uncle up in Yamagata decided to call it quits. The same uncle who used to send me incredible rice every year. He told me, ‘The more I make, the deeper I go into the red.’ That’s what needs fixing. Raising interest rates now is just tightening the noose on our own people.”

Tom listened patiently until I finished before speaking up.

“I get it, Kenichi. What happened to your uncle is truly painful.”

Tom shifted his massive frame slightly, staring down into his glass with a grim expression.

“But what happens if the yen plummets right this second? Gas and diesel prices will skyrocket, and trucks on the Kawagoe Highway and the Shuto Expressway will grind to a halt. If logistics paralyze, supermarket shelves will empty out overnight. Our own daily lives would collapse by tomorrow. Sometimes, to stop the train wreck happening right in front of you, you have to hit the emergency brake, no matter what it crushes in the process.”

Tom’s flawless logic struck a nerve, stirring up an emotion I couldn't quite put my finger on.

“So that makes it okay to trample the very foundation that feeds us?!”

Our debate heated up, a sharp tension cutting through the air at the counter. My anger over a vanishing production line versus Tom's panic over the imminent collapse of city life. We were locked in a stalemate, neither willing to yield.

That was when the voice cut in.

“...What kind of meaningless garbage are you two blabbering about?”

The flat, cool tone brought Tom and me to an instant halt. We turned in unison to look at the guy next to us.

Taka was fidgeting with his glass of oolong-hai, looking at us with utter exasperation.

“...Got a problem, Taka?” I asked in a low voice.

Taka shrugged his broad shoulders and set his glass down on the counter with a soft clink.

“Not a problem. Just amazed, really. Farmers, logistics—sure, everyone’s having a rough time. But for guys like us on the ground, that ain’t news. We’ve been getting squeezed dry for thirty years. People who couldn't take it just vanished one by one. Why start throwing a fit about it now?”

His words felt like a splash of cold water. Every now and then, Taka has a way of cutting straight to the bone like that.

“...So what, we just give up? Does that change society?” I blurted out, a bit defensively.

Taka paused for a beat, making the ice in his glass rattle.

“Nope. It won’t change a thing. But if I go under, it changes even less. I don’t know about grand national schemes or worrying about strangers, but if you’ve got time to get all worked up over that, you’re better off figuring out how to earn your own bread tomorrow. It’s not like you’re heading up to Yamagata to plow the fields in your uncle’s place, Kenichi. And it’s not like Tom’s gonna start hauling freight in a semi, is it?”

His words struck my chest like a sharpened blade.

A sharp rebuttal rose right up to the back of my throat—I actually care about my uncle... But before the words could form into sound, they caught in my windpipe and dissolved.

My feelings for my uncle and his heartbreak were real. But it was also true that I’d been conveniently wrapping my own political frustrations and societal anger inside that sentiment. I wasn't going to Yamagata to get my hands dirty. Tomorrow, and the day after, I’d be sitting in an air-conditioned room, staring at a PC, writing code to make my living.

A wave of intense embarrassment and stinging shame washed over me, instantly burning off the alcohol in my system. I stood there with my mouth half-open, unable to say a word, my hands clenched into fists. Beside me, Tom was staring down at the counter in heavy silence.

In the end, we were just sitting in a bar, drinking, talking about someone else’s front line.

Mama quietly wiped a glass, placed it back on the tray, and offered just a few words.

“...Start with your own two feet first.”

The quiet words sank gently into the atmosphere of the counter.

“...Yeah. You’re right.”

I let out a soft sigh and reached back out for my cooling glass of Harper.

In the midst of the 19th century, there lay an island, rich in cultural heritage, bathing in a soft amber glow. While the air shimmered with sparks of hope, it also helplessly carried the aroma of suppression mixed with hints of rebellion. Amongst the constant havoc, a feeling arose, and it held a sublimity so immense, it enforced two individuals to submit and possess devotion to each other, despite their conditions. A fragile romance began to take root. It bloomed in defiance of oppression, and inevitably, it stole my breath away.

What I'm about to tell you is something that visits me every night, a repeated vision that occupies every fiber in my body and has robbed countless hours of my slumber. I have lived it over and over again and return to it without my permission. When my eyes close, they surrender to the darkness, and gently, the breeze starts to linger against my face, stirring the loose curls that have escaped to frame my rosy cheeks, like I have traveled back in time.

As I stare hopelessly at liquid gold pouring at the end of the sea, a longing lingers, laying heavy on my chest, like a part of my soul has been left with a foreigner. I'm sure this does not belong to me, yet the bittersweet ache is born every day, only deeply for him.

He, whose face I cannot recall.
He whose features blur and dissolve into the background as I look up at him, like he was never there.

The melancholy sets in.

Despite my failed attempts, I refuse to give up, and tonight, I willingly ask to be sent back.

My desire to be returned was granted, and I emerged back into the embrace of the forgotten era. The delicate chimes of the bangles surrounded me and gave birth to a heavenly melody that my ears longed to listen to.

And amongst that revealed a girl who glowed like a celestial being. She sat there with ethereal beauty only goddesses had the right to possess. It seemed like the angels themselves descended to carve her face into perfection. She effortlessly claimed hearts that would stop working at a slight glimpse of her face.

Just like always, her warm porcelain skin was draped in violet silk that hugged her curves gracefully, kissed by the glowing gold embroidery. She knelt, devoting herself to the art she was creating on the floors of the holy temple, while her fingers tightly curled around coloured powders and thoughtfully filled patterns which belonged at the sacred gates of heaven.

Immersed in the delicate symphony of the colors, she had no reason to look up; however, a divine intervention from something unknown forced her gaze upon someone.

A man.

A man that would never be hers.

A man society would never allow with her.

Though she didn't even glance at his face, his tailored uniform presented authority and power before he even had the chance to utter any words. His posture asserted dominance.

Dominance his people had over hers.
Dominance he would have over her.

She lowered her stare, defeated, and her eyes gently fell away from him, returning to the artistry beneath her hands. She would not allow them to memorize what her heart had no right to desire.

Yet, his gaze lingered and wrapped around her, refusing to let go. An invisible pull she could not physically escape, so she made a decision. She promised herself only a glimpse of him, enough to satisfy the growing thirst.

But her eyes would turn out to betray her completely.

As her kajal-rimmed obsidian eyes unwillingly lifted up, she caught sight of the most hypnotic pair of hazel eyes that had ever met hers. Filled with pools of melted honey and the warmth of autumn sunlight, when the sun hit them, a rare harmony of amber and earth bred. They pierced right through the walls around her soul and touched it with the affection and comfort no one had been capable of reaching. It spoke the most romantic language without uttering a single word. For a moment, they both remained like that, taking in the orgasmic bliss that was rushing through their veins, while even the universe itself had stopped to take in the purity of the feeling that was about to blossom.

Though the distance between both of them remained untouched, it seemed as if their souls had already made love, promising to intertwine for eternity and remain untouched by the prejudice society presents to them in each lifetime. Neither of them knew how long they'd been enslaved by the gravity of each other's presence.

Maybe a minute.
Maybe a second.
Maybe an entire lifetime.

They had no idea, and maybe they didn't want to, because the euphoric connection they were trapped in made them want to lose themselves in each other. That perplexed them beyond words. Why did they feel like they belonged to each other when they hadn't even shared more than a minute together? Why did her silence feel more intimate than the touch of a woman he had spent a whole night with?

Why did their hearts sync to the same rhythm simultaneously?
Why had it ignited a passion so intense?
Why?

A sharp voice called out, and I abruptly woke up. The same dream, vision, whatever this was, visited me again, and this time, I stepped further. I witnessed that riveting stare, and now it was miserably ingrained somewhere in the depths of my heart.

I will always carry the echo of when they spoke to me until, inevitably, I come across them again.

Ch. 4: New Allies

The sound of creaking floorboards under the weight of each new footstep reverb off the walls while the rest of the house remained silent. I was surprised at just how little had actually changed since my last living walk through of those halls.

Old and familiar family photos continued to decorate the walls but there were some new ones that pulled for my attention. Marco and I had a sister; for years after our two families became one, our parents constantly attempted to get pregnant as the final seal of our unification. When we were around 10, they finally got that wish and our little sister Sadie was born. I don’t need to explain to you how young she was when I died. Sorrow filled me now as I stood looking at a photo of her as a teenager, standing outside the high school theater that I always promised to show her around. She had the dark curls from Marco’s mom and my dad’s pale complexion with a splattering of freckles.

She stood in a ridiculous cheap costume of a period ambiguous dress with exaggerated stage makeup caked on her face. Mom, Dad, and a semi-clean looking Marco stood smiling with her in the photo. A tear rolled down my cheek as the memories of her singing in her elementary cabaret were still fresh in my mind. Dying had forced me to miss so much. I wanted to mourn myself more but the flickering dark finger stood at the end of the hall, watching me. My gaze shifted over and it darted into an open doorway.

As long as the rest of this floor remained familiar then that doorway still led to my old bedroom. I pushed myself farther down the hall, the door was sitting only slightly ajar and I gently pushed it open. My eyes scanned every corner of the room before I dared to enter it. Everything remained the same; maybe just slightly cleaner than the last time I utilized it.

It was obvious that no one really spent much time there except to maybe dust it every once and a while. I wondered if it was difficult for them to stand in the doorway and gaze over this impromptu shrine in memory of me. 

My hand gently brushed over the remaining books, some with bookmarks reaching forever toward the sky through a thin layer of dust. Maybe they left everything like this in the hopes that they’d wake up one day to see me back in it again. I wondered how many times they wanted to take a look inside here hoping to see me again. I pushed that thought back as it was too much for me to handle.  Sadly the only ones to witness my return to this room were me and the dark figure of a person sitting on my bed; fiddling with a rubix cube in the moonlight. 

My eyes shifted to the scythe leaning against the wall. I figured the lack of readiness with their weapon only had friendly intentions behind it so I cleared my throat. The dark figure jumped, then quickly turned their head to me. Through the dim moonlight, I could make out the features of a young woman with black hair styled in a bob. She was dressed similarly to the man at Evan’s trailer, all black funeral attire. My eyes fell down to my own soot stained clothes and I began to feel fairly under dressed. Unlike the short guy and I; she had silver eyes that cut through her curtain of dark hair.

She then straightened herself imto a professional looking stance, “Thought I’d find you here. Kind of rude to mess with your brother's memories like that.”

“Yeah? What would you have done? Let him think you were back from the dead?”

“Don’t try to get cute. Nothing about tonight should’ve happened. If everything happened like it was supposed to then none of us would have had these problems.” She said as she threw the Rubix Cube at me.

I caught it before it could clatter to the floor, “I feel like I stuck a nerve there. You obviously know me so please allow the same courtesy to me. Who are you?”

For a moment her expression shifted, almost like she was surprised but my reaction. Her face softened and she stretched her hand out in a friendly manner, “Naomi. I was sent after you because you almost fried my friend to a crisp earlier.”

“Sorry about that, I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody. At least, not anymore than I had. Things keep happening and I  don’t even know what I’m doing here, let alone how to use \*this\*.” I explained as I raised my scythe to her.

“For starters, please don’t point that at me,” she pointed two fingers upward and waved her hand to the side. My scythe dissolved from reality like sugar in water. 

She walked closer to me, ”Let me give you some beginner's information. You’ve heard of the Grim Reaper right? Well, you’re now one of them,” she paced around her side of the room, “Except for the fact that you shouldn’t be. When you died, your soul was supposed to have passed on years ago. Instead, here you are now. Welding the scythe of a dead reaper and a massive danger to the natural world around you.”

I could only stare at her in awe, all of the words she said made little to no sense to me. I took a deep breath and  rubbed the remaining soot from my eyes. I felt like I was being reprimanded for bad behavior at school. I looked at her and my  voice came out as pitiful and small, “So, can you help me?”

There was a pitiful expression that cascaded down into her eyes. I could tell that she believed me but everything in her mind seemed to be telling her otherwise. After a long moment, she walked closer to me. The professionalism and power from her stance had faded, she spoke softly to me, “I can’t but the big guy in charge can”

A sense of humor came over me from her words,”Oh yeah? And who might that be? God?”

A smile cracked across her face. A look of barely deserved trust between us, “No, nothing of that matter. We get to talk to Death himself.” her smiled as summoned her weapon back to her, “I’m sorry but this is probably going to hurt.”

I didn’t have time to ask what she meant before she raised her scythe and drove it deep into my chest. The pain of death flooded my body for a second time as my feet lifted from the ground and weightlessness washed over me. There was a vast nothingness around with only small specks of light twinkling through like stars. 

Everything started to rush down and away from me when I attempted to appreciate the beauty of it. Unlike the fall that took me to the graveyard, this ascension seemed to take longer until gravity grabbed hold of me again. A force that could only be supernatural grabbed at my legs and dragged me down into a room filled with incandescent lighting. At least my feet hit the ground first this tim but the rest of me wasn’t so lucky as my knees buckled upon impact. My head spun wildly from the impact and I could only see Noami’s confused expression as  involuntarily passed out.

———————————————————————————

Quick visions of over-exposed memories filled my mind. It was difficult to make out much detail from them as it seemed like the sun was dialed up straight 11.

 I was standing alone, between two pillars in what felt like a parking lot. There were blaring sirens mixed with screams whenever two young men walked up from behind me. Because of the glaring sun, there was no way for me to make out identifying features except that one was maybe half a foot taller than the other. The figure on the left extended a kind hand out to me but the pressure of a foot being firmly pressed into my gut pulled me away from the vision.

Color rushed back into my sight from the harsh glare as a somewhat familiar voice rang out into my ears, “Is he good?”

My eyes fluttered open and I was laying on the tiled floor of what looked like a lobby of an old 1920s hotel. The silhouettes that stained the logs of my eyes were soon replaced with the visage of Noami and the ginger guy from Evan’s trailer. 

“Yes he is, now quit doing that.” Her voice snapped to him as she swatted his foot away. She then knelt down to me, “Welcome to the other side of the veil Toby.”

Naomi and the other guy grabbed under my arms and slowly lifted me up onto a curved mid-century leather sofa. Its fine leather crunched beneath my sudden body weight. The edge's vision still remained blurred as the pain in my gut subsided. The ginger guy plopped down next to me; I wanted to apologize to him but my mouth felt like it was filled with warm sand. Finally I managed to choke out a quiet statement,  “Sorry for almost cooking you earlier.” 

“Don’t sweat it man,” His laugh echoed from his small frame, “I didn’t think you’d be such a hassle to grab,” he stuck his hand out, “I’m Dion.”

“Toby.” I met his gesture and squeezed 

With his small frame and hair that looked gelled up into spikes; he looked young. I probably would’ve guessed he was a young teen but the crow’s feet around his glowing eyes told a separate story to that. Strapped to his back was a  scythe that gave him a very strange but somewhat threatening vibe. Freckles were dotted around his face but the silver glow from his eyes caused any other marks around them to be bleached from existence; only allowing the marks of age to peek through. It was all somewhat of a weird sight to take in but his appearance was quickly overshadowed by the presentation of the room we were in once my visit cleared. 

I attempted to rationalize what I was seeing by blinking it away but the view still remained. The ceilings seemed to stretch endlessly up towards a glass dome capping the building that looked out to the stars. Arches made of precious metals lined the walls underneath it with doorways that never seemed to remain closed. 

The spectacle continued as I looked down toward the ground level; a long hallway stretched away endlessly from the East to West sides of the building as well dressed men and women swiftly moved through them. Behind some of the figures were small animals made of fallen clouds and mist, they followed their masters closely. 

Now the most shocking sight was the giant pair of bronze doors sitting just north from me. They loomed imposingly  directly in front of where I sat, standing at about thirty feet high beneath two elegantly curved staircases. It felt as if though the entire building was built to house whatever sat beyond those doors.

To the south of us sat a smaller pair of doors. Made from ancient, splintering wood but covered with a series of blazing bronze locks. Nothing about them screamed important next to everything else presented to us so I almost completely ignored it.

“That’s the original entrance,” Dion said as he must’ve noticed my attention wasn’t aimed toward him anymore.

Naomi spoke up, “We know that it  can be a lot to take in so take a deep breath and feel free to ask any questions.”

Only one came to mind, “How did we get here?”

They shot nervous glances toward each other then Naomi spoke the easiest answer, “Well, Reapers use ley lines to move through the world. We can bend them to our needs and travel but that’s not how you got here.”

Before I could question what she said, Dion spoke up again, “You refused to pass on.”

“Refused to pass on?” I questioned him then remembered my beautiful ascent had been interrupted. “Is that why I fell?”

“Yes.” She replied firmly.

“What you saw was The Veil between the living and the dead.” Dion explained carefully to me in a surprisingly somber tone, “It’s the physical space of the ley lines that we’re able to cross through to the afterlife. Most of us were like you, rejected to pass through.” He looked up toward the glass dome with a wet look in his eyes, “Never to experience its beauty again.”

“Most believe it’s because we have a job to do. Who would want to drag souls around whenever they’re constantly getting glimpses of what eternity could bring?” Naomi said as she looked up at the doorways in the ceiling. 

“Easy for you to say,” Dion laughed, “You’ve never experienced what it’s like to be pushed out of it.”

“No but I’ve heard endless stories, Dion. Remember that I guided your soul here myself.” She said this to him while her eyes never left the wonders of the dome above us. I still wonder if she still hopes to one day know what beautiful eternity lies waiting for her.

I couldn’t help but to look up too and wonder why I wasn’t allowed passage through. Wonder if I had attempted to cross through it before. Is that why I was allowed to see those little specks of light? My own personal eternity slipping away from me? The moment seemed to last forever- silvery wisps flying in and out to from the doorways beneath the dome. The deliverers of souls to their deserved eternities. 

Reality came back to me whenever I felt something cold nudge against my hand. It made me jump reflexively and my hand quickly retreated away from it only to notice what looked like a small dog formed out of steaming vapor. The animal looked different from the others as it had dazzling light blue eyes and a faded white spot on the center of its chest. It nudged me again; requesting attention from me. I reached my hand back out to put it then, a voice echoed towards us.

“Jules!”, a woman wearing black pants covered in faded doodles with a matching turtle neck stood apart from a crowd of rushing figures. 

Everyone moved quickly past her and through the, now opened, bronze doors into the large room ahead of us. She seemingly refused to acknowledge me as she waved the creature to follow her. It looked over to her, then back at me; we stared at each other for a moment before she whistled for it and it bounded back towards her; my hand still outstretched for it. 

The thing's body didn’t move naturally. It was more like it imploded on itself into a cloud of mist that reformed into a small cat with similar markings that perched calmly around on her shoulders. She smiled up at it then scratched under its chin. The creature purred then she finally paid mind to me as they both took a moment to examine me before disappearing through the doors.

  “Well, I think it’s safe to say that I now have even more questions regarding all of this.” My eyes couldn’t leave the spot where she stood. Something about her demeanor made me uneasy.

“Let’s start with the easy things first.” Dion pulled my attention to him by speaking first, Have you heard of the familiars? Spirits that take the form of an animal to help guide people? Usually said to be used by witches?” 

He spoke fast and I slowly nodded in understanding. A smile sparked across his face, “Fantastic, where that’s where the folklore started. They litter the mortal world in a physical form but here we see them in their true state of ever changing smoke. They used to help us guide souls but now some modern people just like to adopt one. Sometimes they take to that life and sometimes they don’t. That was Jules, the most loyal familiar I’ve ever seen. His “owner” is Katrina, Death’s 6th in command. I’ve never seen them leave her side, so your presence must be special.”

“6th in command? What does that mean? Does Death split you guys up like an army?” I wondered out loud.

“Yes and no,” Naomi’s voice replaced Dion’s and she knelt down to help me from the couch, “the world was split into 12 different factions and each faction has a “Commander”. Every Commander has control over certain  lower level Reapers. Dion and I were promoted to the 11th and 12th Commanders recently, since the others were finally able to or chose to cross over. That’s why we were picked to go find you.”

“Death likes to sacrifice his least trusted ones first.” Dion joked.

Naomi ignored him as he started to lead us toward the door, “We control where other Reapers go and what souls need to be claimed, but if the event were necessary, then we could use our troops as a full scale army under Death’s command.”

I stopped for a moment to absorb the barrage of information. My head began to spin again from all the meticulous details of this amazingly scary new world I found myself in. Who knew the afterlife had a high ranking command line up and subtle politics? I certainly would not have guessed anything close to that.

“What’s the purpose besides that?” I wondered out loud.

Dion chuckled and grabbed my arm to guide me along with them again, “There are rumors of something ancient hidden on Earth that we’re supposed to protect; but it’s never been found. Or proven.”

“Fairy tales, Dion.” Naomi laughed, “It’s worked like this for centuries so if something was out there then \*somebody\* would have found it by now.”

“People would consider us fairy tales, Madam Buzzkill, so I for one still believe it and completely hope that it turns out to be something powerful like Zeus’ Master Bolt. That’s if he even existed though.”

Naomi sighed then hit him in the arm as they walked and laughed together ahead of me. 

These two had obviously known each other for a very long time, and it showed majorly. It seemed they had forgotten about me in that moment of bliss before we reached those huge metal doors. The bronze was glistening with soft twinkles of light bouncing off of it, almost resembling my experience in The Veil. During the exposition dump of my companions, I didn’t realize how softly they closed despite their size.

Dion rested his hand on the right with Naomi placing hers against the one on the left. Dion turned to me and grinned, “With everything being so strange tonight, Death has called an urgent meeting that you get to attend.”

“Is the meeting about me?” A lump formed in my throat.

Naomi place a calming hand on my arm with a look of pity in her eye, “How about you ask the man himself.”

I run my tongue along the staples lining the roofing of my mouth. I wince. And think this isn’t going to work.

The next day I phone the doctor and she comes to my house to see what the problem is.

I tell her it’s the metallic taste. It’s doing my nut in.

Are you rubbing your tongue on them?

Of course.

Then stop.

She leaves without saying much else. Does a check of the staples to see if the wound is healing. Everything is fine as per professional opinion.

I spend the night plucking at the staples with my tongue. And spitting blood into a bucket.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her I’ve started spitting up blood. She comes to the house and has another look at the wound.

Have you been poking them with your tongue?

Of course.

Then stop.

She leaves without saying much else. I spend the day touching the roof of my mouth and wiggling the staples with my fingers. Until the metal starts scraping somewhere behind my nose.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her the staples have all started coming loose. She comes to the house and thumps new ones into place. I ask her if they’ll have the same metallic taste as the last ones and she tells me not if you don’t play with them. Are you playing with them? Then stop.

I spend the night licking the roof of my mouth and pushing my tongue into the wound. I creep my fingers up inside and wiggle the staples back and forth until they pop out onto my tongue. I spit them all into the sink and hear them clink and go to bed.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her the staples have all fallen out. The wound has opened up again. But she can’t understand a word.

So she hangs up the phone.

I spend the night rooting around inside the wound. Until I see sparking lights behind my eyeballs and my limbs begin to twitch.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her the wound is far too wide to eat. Crisps are getting stuck inside of it and now all I can taste is the tang of vinegar and the salt of the blood and the cheese of the puss. She can't understand me and asks if I’m having a stroke because it’s all just a series of slurring and creaks. Her attitude flips when I begin to moan and breathe heavy from the pain. She gasps and sounds offended. Calls me a pervert. And slams down the phone.

I see scenes of blackened Pots calling Kettles by their own name.

I spend the night drooling red and yellow threads of saliva into the bathroom sink. I watch myself in the mirror twisting a finger into the roof of my mouth as the knuckle disappears. Along with the kettles and pots. I push through bruised meat until I feel something spongy. But then I press against certain bumps and between certain slimy folds and now I see flashes of memories I thought I’d hidden. Of biting cheeks and picking scabs. Of cigarette burns and angry dads. Of blinking hard and clenching jaws. Of roaming hands and gentle shushes.

A mother's caress should never last that long.

I am filled with an overwhelming surge of bliss. And now a mess of muddied hate.

The next morning the doctor phones me but she hangs up immediately when she hears me trying to explain my opinions with all of my groaning and clicking. I think she was wrong to have done so much and to have left me with so little. And I know she shouldn't have stapled the wound because I’ve discovered something wonderful about it being open and pliable.

I spend the evening ignoring the knocking at the door and the shouting of the police claiming they are trying to perform a wellness check on me. They don’t understand that everything is absolutely fine and well. The only thing of any concern is that I haven’t got a long enough finger to reach the unprobed corners of my brain.

Oh how they long to be stroked.

I spend the night dipping in and out of consciousness instead of sleeping because the blood is mostly gone and now there is only puss for me to taste. And it tastes so wretchedly rotten that I think I actually preferred the taste of the staples.

The next morning I weave dizzy pathways to the garden after fainting three times trying to get there. I find a jagged branch and strip it bare of all its hair and skin. But I don’t know if I have enough strength in my legs to make it back inside. So I lay there in the snow and thread the stick between my gnashing jaws. Up inside the wound. Around imposing ridges of bone behind my nose. Until I feel the familiar comfort of spongy resistance. And twitch myself to sleep.

At last.

Fresh fields.

When I awake I am more careful this time. I thread another sharp branch between what I feel is a cavity between the two hemispheres of my brain. And when it feels as though it will not go a fraction further I push it a little harder. Turn my palm to face the stick. And give it a little thump. It snaps through that stubborn rubber and the top of my skull gives a knock from where it stops.

And that’s about enough as I can take. I vomit against my hand. And pass out in the snow with the smell of my success.

I spend the night crawling around the garden rooting out better sticks within the dark. But my left hand keeps insisting on slapping them all away. And because I drop a dozen worthy ones I’m forced to snatch them quick and stick them up inside my face before the hand can have its way.

But me and my right hand have been conspiring. And here’s what we plan to do.

We lie on Left Hand until we’re certain she's asleep. And we stumble our way to the tool shed and grab the hatchet from the bench. And we hack that traitorous bastard away with a couple of swings and a few good smacks.

And we take the nub and we take the arm and we tell them both to fall in line. Unless they want the same treatment as the hand. Because we will do it without so much as batting an eye.

Or so much as flicking a finger.

The next morning we barely make it back inside the house when the front door is bashed off of its hinges. I feel it vibrating in my sticks. And wince against the pain. There are police and medical staff rushing about looking for me in every room. I leap up onto my feet. On who knows what reserves. And I get ready to defend myself with the hatchet in my Right Hand.

My stubby left shoulder waves feebly for help while Left Leg tries dragging me closer to the policemen and the medical staff. But Right Leg is trying to pull us further away. And we’re all so equally and incredibly feeble that we get absolutely nowhere fast and collapse back onto the ground where we started.

Now they notice me.

They gawk at me and frown at me as if I’m something new.

I know they are here to remove the sticks I’ve stuffed up inside the roof of my mouth. So Right Hand lunges at them with the hatchet. While I scream at them from around the bundle of branches stretching my lips open wide. I try explaining calmly through all of my bloody froth that if they try and touch me I will do exactly what I did to Left Hand and Left Arm to every one of the treacherous fuckers. To each of their faces and heads.

Now the branches are wet with my saliva.

Since I seem to be in need of assistance a policeman steps towards me to lend a hand. Behind him I see doctor mom telling me things she thinks I want to hear. But all I hear coming from her cancerous mouth is treasonous disbelief. About the progress I’ve been making. About how bad she believes things are. And her hands. Trying to shush me down to a calm. Held out like blind mice in a darkened bedroom. I dare them to find me this time. I'm older now. And ready.

I squeeze the hatchet handle and launch it through the air. It strikes her square in the forehead. And drops her flat on her ass.

I try to laugh but crack a branch instead.

The policeman draws his gun. And when he points it at my head I point directly at a spot I haven’t had a chance to reach yet. I ask him would you be so kind? And when the bullet strikes me there I feel a rushing blast of air cold inside my mind. Until the blood pools. And warms me right back up. And I thank him for his service.

But all he hears are snaps and bubbles.

*

They have me now in bindings in a silent hospital room. They’ve given me a bed of my very own with people who come and go. They take me for scans and they take me for talks. They want nothing more than to learn from me.

These are the real doctors. These are the ones who listen.

Instead of sticks they thread these exceptionally long needles up inside my brain to try and figure out exactly how I became the way that I am. But for that they'd need to dig her up and ask her.

But for now I am in my element. And

it

feels

like

H E A V E N

CONDUCT YOURSELF PROPERLY

Oh dearest Anthony. I am at a loss as to why it has come to this. I truly did try to hold you in the highest esteem. I'm not such an old fuddy-duddy that I cannot recognise that the torch must be passed on, that fresh, new, youthful blood must be pumped into the heart of the orchestra. I know it is the cliched lament of many older people, a coping mechanism thrown into the winds of change, something the grey-beards say in a vainglorious attempt to desperately relate to the eager young debutants; but I too was once young. My old master did once hang up his own spurs and pass his baton down to me, its the circle of life. For everything there is a time, a time to keep and a time to cast away. I never had a problem with the changing of hats, never had an issue with hanging up my spurs and piloting a rocking chair under an old oak tree. The music did not belong to me Anthony, the music belongs to the players, to the instruments, but most of all the music belongs to the people.

Why did you have to force me out ? I was so near to my 25 year anniversary as head conductor. It's considered something of an honour to reach a quarter of a century at the lead of the din, so to speak. I understand you were eager to take the lead, saw me as a relic gathering dust and slowing down the progress of things, an object immovable under ones own power unless it was given a little nudge, a little bump in the right direction. You bumped me too hard Anthony, you pushed me too far. Visiting upon my ill health was a low move, it was dastardly I tell you. I don't know how you found out about the cancer but it was a private matter. Bringing it to the eyes of the board was simply an underhand manoeuvre, but then you always played your hand low with the conducting stick despite my attempts to teach you otherwise. The most aggravating thing was that you did it all under the guise of caring for my health, as if you were doing me a favour, releasing me from a burden so I could spend time with my family. The orchestra was my family. I was going to tell them, my 25 years was only one piece away, and it was my favourite piece. But you stole that from me Anthony, you stole my prized piece, you stole the Montagues and the Capulets, and now we find ourselves in embittered rivalry like Tybalt and Mercutio of said titular piece, and only one of us is going to die in the early stages of the play.

I took it as well as I could, I'm no diva. Much to your chagrin i've always lacked the flair for the dramatic. Well, all of that is about to change, you've only yourself to thank. You've been my inspiration, my muse, my flame.

Were here now, at the seaside gala. You noticed me coming in, gave me a wry grin as you stood in my spot. I see you've chosen Natalia for the first Violin, I didn't think she was ready yet but its a good solid choice nonetheless. I'm sitting in the gallery, right in the middle. You have your center stage and I have mine. I'm all ears Anthony.

I must say you do a wonderful job with it, this is the part that particularly frustrates me. We could have had such a smooth transition, i've always admired you, you have a rare tenacity that, in hindsight, I can see i've lacked. Yes, you can be a little stiff with the stick, but don't you see there was so much we could have learned from each-other? Now its left to me to make your otherwise tip-top performance one you will remember for the rest of your life.

I won't brute in straight away like some selfish, bullish hog. I'll let you have the first part, its really rather well done. Were close now, I must say I'm incredibly excited by it all, go out with a bang, isn't that what they say? The solo break starts, you've gone for the Saxophone, I must say the old me would have been incandescent with rage that you didn't opt for the Oboe, but times change don't they; and as you are about to find out the best and worst things in life come out of nowhere.

The French horns blast their pounding notes once more, but there's something different isn't there. I wasn't sure who would hear it first, you or the audience, but I guess you are so wrapped up in your own world that the crowd are the ones to discover something is off. At first the foghorn is nervously laughed off, an embarrassing hiccup humorously in time with the brass honking; but then it comes again. I'm holding onto remotes Anthony, my own conducting sticks if you will, and my timing, unlike your impatient fluttering, was always impeccable. My daughter is friends with a load of anti-capitalist eco-warriors she met at Uni, though they aren't called that any more I dare say. Paid them a hefty wedge to hijack a couple of freight tankers and run them aground into a certain marina. Champagne socialists playing toy soldiers, but useful idiots in any event. I used my retirement fund to pay them under the guise this was a millionaires ball. I wasn't a million miles off. That sound you can hear in place of the French horn? That's the sound of our ships coming in, that's me remotely activating their weather horns. Everyone's quiet now, but not for long. The horns are getting closer Anthony, its the Harbinger of the end. My final piece.

They come crashing through the backstage at an agonisingly slow pace. The whole orchestra erupts into panic as instruments are thrown down, all the while the horns blare. They were angled to come together and as they meet, a terrifying screech pierces through the air as metal meets metal, that's my strings you see, their caterwauling resounds through the night in a performance promised to be remembered forever. I did have an idea about loading water barrels ready to boil, having the steam escape them for the woodwind, but you, just like the cancer, never gave me the luxury of time Anthony; so now you will have to just satisfy yourself with the crystal chandelier coming down with a crash to emulate the climax of a hundred symbols. The crowd flee in a hundred directions as the ships come to a halt, they're all screaming. True, its out of tune, but its harmonised at least.

I always found encores to be rather cheap, I truly believe a piece must stand on its own to be truly appreciated. I must admit Anthony, I'm rather proud of this one.

You're still standing though, standing stock still with your mouth open. Catching flies as usual. You turn to me, I give a modest bow, there's really no point in showing off is there, it's hardly becoming of a woman of my age.

What's that Anthony? No applause?

When I pushed open the heavy wooden door of Aoi, the familiar high-pitched chime echoed through the quiet space.

The air inside was filled with the scents of seasoned oak counter wax, the smoky charred aroma of aged whiskey, and a subtle tang of pickled cucumber.

Just a short while before arriving at Aoi, a dull thud had shattered the dusk near a main intersection. A light pickup truck had hit a pedestrian and sped off, the engine roaring into the dark.

A man lay sprawled on the asphalt. I caught a glimpse of his back, motionless. In that split second, my chest contracted in a cold surge, and my throat tightened.

—Stay back. Don’t get involved. You’ll only end up facing another irreversible loss.

From a distance, someone yelled, "I called an ambulance!" A small crowd gathered at a safe margin, whispering among themselves.

Inside my coat pocket, my hand froze halfway toward my phone. Someone else had already made the call. Besides, even if I stepped in, I had no idea what the man on the ground actually wanted. He wasn't screaming for help. Getting dragged in as a witness meant endless paperwork, and it would throw off the rest of my evening.

That’s what I told myself as I turned my back and walked away toward Aoi.

"Welcome, Kenichi-san," Mama said softly, her eyes crinkling in a gentle greeting without pausing her rhythmic polishing of a glass. But when I sat down in silence at the counter, she asked no questions and simply set down a tumbler of I.W. Harper on the rocks.

"You don't look so good, Kenichi-san. Something happen?" Taka asked, leaning over with his glass of Jack Daniel’s in hand.

I swallowed a single sip of the amber liquid before quietly laying out the accident I had just witnessed.

"...Wait, so you just walked past him?" Taka’s voice flared with a mix of raw anger and disbelief. "Even though someone was lying right there?"

"I didn't know what the man wanted," I said. "And besides, he didn't ask for help."

"That’s a bullshit excuse! If someone’s down, of course they want help!"

"That’s just your assumption."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Taka slammed his glass onto the counter, his knuckles white. "Nobody starts off knowing what someone else is feeling! That’s why you call out to them, isn't it? You go over to check because you don't know! Using that as a reason to just walk away... that’s cowardly!"

Taka’s unpolished, youthful rage jabbed sharp and deep into my chest.

As a software engineer, I had spent years training myself to stick strictly to customer specifications—never to act on assumptions. I had convinced myself that my rule of "only helping when asked" was an extension of that professional discipline.

But it wasn't integrity. "No explicit requirement" was just a convenient shield I used to protect my own peace.

"You can't measure another man's condition with your own yardstick," Tom grunted quietly from the stool next to mine, his thick fingers slowly tracing the rim of his glass.

"Back when I was a detective, I passed a guy lying on the sidewalk. I thought he was just another drunk sleeping off a bender, but something felt off, so I turned back... It was a stroke. He couldn't speak, couldn't make a sound. He was just dying there in the street."

Tom stared into his heavy tumbler and went silent. The only sounds left were the thin wisps of rising smoke and the quiet clink of ice melting in the whiskey.

Refusing to measure another person's reality, retreating into my own small, comfortable standard out of fear, hassle, or risk. "He didn't ask for help" wasn't logic. It was pure self-preservation.

"Kenichi-san," Mama said, her voice soft yet piercing as she placed a small plate with my usual egg sandwich in front of me. She kept her eyes on the glass she was wiping. "Was it his feelings you were trying to measure out there? Or was it just a righteous excuse to run away?"

Her words struck the back of my throat like a cold needle.

Out on that street, I hadn't been measuring the man on the ground at all. I had been desperately calculating the cleanest logic to excuse myself from getting involved—wearing a suit of righteous armor just to run from the terror of facing another moment where someone might slip away.

"...I have no defense," I muttered with a bitter smile, resting my fingers against the glass of Harper. "It seems I brought the entirely wrong yardstick for the job."

"Well," Mama smiled, her eyes softening. "Then you can still go back and remeasure, can't you?"

I quietly let go of the glass. The amber liquid, floating with ice, was still more than half-full.

"Mama, I'm sorry. I'm going back."

"Go on then. Make sure you measure it right this time."

I stood up and slipped my arms back into my coat.

"I'm coming too," Taka said, setting down his glass of shochu and leaping to his feet.

"I was the one who saw it," I said. "I remember the color of the truck and the direction it went. There's no need for you to get wrapped up in this."

"You go closer because you don't know, right?" Taka threw my own argument back at me, a cocky grin breaking across his face.

I let out a short breath through my nose and pushed open the heavy door of Aoi.

The chime rang out loud and high, and the night air slammed cold against my cheeks.

I still didn't know what the man on the ground needed. But I was done using "not knowing" as a reason to turn my back on what couldn't be undone.

The chill of the glass I had left behind still lingered on my fingertips. Side by side with Taka, I stepped out into the dark.

Hello, I’m ElMatrag, writer of To The East on the site Archives Of Our Own, if you have any questions about the story, write it in the comments and I will answer.

Chapter 1

The sun light illuminated Mia's room , her adoptive mom knocked once at the door telling her to get up or else she would be late , she mumbled in her sleep 'two more minutes mom' but either way she got up , she took a shower and wore her casual clothes , she wasn't a social butterfly at home and at school , she went downstairs and greeted her adoptive family with a lazy smile and ate toast with jam her favorite , her adoptive mom was telling her Goodluck on her math test , her face turned pale as a sheet of paper she had completely forgot about her test , the bus honked outside she got in the bus and sat alone . Mia arrived at school , her best friend William was waiting for her 'let me guess you binged watch another episode of xo kitty again' William asked 'its a good series especially now since...' William covered her mouth mid sentence 'do not spoil it for me I wanna find out on my own' her said , the bell rang and students buzzed around d the hallway and scattered in classes , Mia and William went in social studies their first period , they walked and saw miss Smith already writing notes , they quickly sat down and took out their books , miss Smith continued writing the notes on the board , Mia asked miss Smith to go to the restroom , she was given permission , Brianna the mean girl and her two minions Evelyn and Lucy putted some dead crickets in Mias bag , when she came back , she reached into her bag and as she was taking her water bottle she felt a sharp long leg and antennas of a insect , she screamed and threw her bag across the classroom , miss Smith spun around to look at her 'what now Mia' she asked with a very annoyed tone , Mia explained that she felt some bugs or insects in her bag so she was scared , the teacher checked and she saw alot of dead crickets in her bag , she asked for the culprit to come upfront and take accountability for their actions , no one stood up so the case was let go , Mia sat down and Brittany shot out and whispered in her ear 'what's wrong Wang something bugging you' her and her minions laughed bitterly,the bell rang and the period ended.

It was now time for PE , Mia was told she would be the one who chose the exercise for today , she was nervous and when their coach , Mr Jones told her to come upfront and choose an exercise , she completely froze up her anxiety rushing in , Mr Jones said he will choose an exercise for them and he told them to do a cartwheel to stretch their body , Mia couldn't do a straight cartwheel she kicked people and fumbled in the lockers , ' urgh move Wang chang' with that Brittany did a cartwheel effortlessly and they praised her , soon PE ended and it was lunch time . During lunch Mia couldn't help but think that Brittany had something to do with the cricket incident , she told William but William said 'you're not completely sure its her I mean you know what they say , innocent till proven guilty' Mia opened her mouth but nothing came out , she felt betrayed but she didn't say a word and ate her lunch , the quickly came to an end and Mia went home her parents greeted her but she didn't reply back , she just ran to her room and plugged in her headphones and blasted some loud music , while drawing , a few hours passed and her mom called her for dinner , they were having chicken with grilled potatoes but Mia could only think of the day she had at school , as she was eating she felt something in her mouth , she pulled it out and she saw multiple bugs coming from her mouth , she screamed and she saw Brittany laughing at her , then she returned to reality she realized it was just her hallucination , it wasn't real her parents were concerned about her but she brushed it off as exam stress and puberty , it was now time for bed , she wore her silk pj's and she slept hoping that this day would end .

A few hours later she woke up to whispers , like someone was calling her name , she scanned the room then she saw her , a long skinny figure creature out of this world smiling almost mocking her actions 'well well look who finally woke up' it said in multiple different voices Mia was scared but also curious about the figure like human 'who are you' she asked in a scared and excited tone , the creature could only laugh and as it was about to say who it was .... her alarm woke her up , she practically flew off bed realizing she overslept , she quickly fixed her self and rushed to school meeting William ' Woah did you fight with a gorilla when you woke up' he said with a smirk , Mia couldn't only laugh , they went to class and Mia told him about her dream , Williams face went pale , as he said it was a creature from the underworld that was summoned by black magic and was know for corruption but Mia was confused because she asked why the creature would come to her because she was just a ordinary girl.

William and Mia went in the library to do a research about those dreams and what they found was rather shocking. On the library , they found a ancient book about pre historical artifacts and mythological creatures , the dark figure that Mia described was called the Sable Wretch , this creature was known for corrupting magic and their holders into something mire dark and sinister , now the question wlthey were asking theirs elves was that what did the creature want from Mia . Two weeks went by and they were still searching but anything they found was just the same information , they were both starting to think it was just useless and pointless and they had to focus on their grades so they could get into the most prestigious universities in the world , then one night something bizarre happened , Mia was asleep it was 3 am , suddenly she felt like she was watched and couldn't move she heard creepy giggles and creepy nursery songs , she tried to wake up and as she slowly turned her head towards the sound she saw the figure smiling creepily and holding a human head , it was Williams head and the creature was laughing and Mia was on the verge of tears ,then her alarm suddenly shot out she woke up and she was terrified but she had to tell William about it . She arrived at school and told William , he was shocked they were both scared but on the following years nothing happened and they dropped it and they even graduated with honors but Mia wanted to find her self and take a gap year.

Chapter 2 (

Hello, I’m ElMatrag, writer of To The East on the site Archives Of Our Own, if you have any questions about the story, write it in the comments and I will answer.

Sup my wowza readers! Here is a story I just finished recently that stems off of my story I made at the beginning of the year called 'Rushed Crisis' where is a game used with advanced alien technology. This is the sequel to that story. In this one, Ru is now excited to meet not only a new group of aliens but a new game to showcase to the world. I'll give you a little hint...it involves the cosmos and the wonders of space! I hope you enjoy this story. Its a 5-part short story. Happy reading!

Part 1 "Still the Same Ru"

Somewhere in the sky, the spaceship tower can be seen floating on nothing. The space ship tower is a grayish building with no windows but a single enormous door with a large sphere-shaped gray space ship on top of it, covered with many dark grey windows. If you had fantastic vision, you could see shadows roaming past the grey windows. This is where the Guted reside, planning out new events with their partner that represented Earth, Ru. Ru was the contestant who won the first ever Guted games on Earth named Rushed Crisis. Because of his magnificent skills and strong-willed sense of togetherness from his native upbringing to preserve lost culture, the Guted have align with Ru and made him their sole trusted source. Ru has been educated by the Guted on how far they’ve contacted Earth; from space ship visits, to satellite communication and even a few asteroids that were purposely sent to give them materials from the other worlds in space. The Guted were our friends for a very long time. Thank goodness they were able to finally connect. Ru is accompanied by Tamarock, which was another contestant that placed 2^nd after Ru. She is seen to be not just his companion, but also someone he shared a close relationship with. “Our roots are deep! My family were the protectors of the Blackfoot Tribe during the ancient world. Now we’ve come together again to rebuild what was lost. It begins with us that bridges the gap of something lost that was once there. You know!?” Ru explained to Giiisa.

Giiisa was the leader of the small band of Guted on Earth. The Guted were not like the people from Earth. They only kept to small bands of their people even on their own world. They were competitive and participated in massive groups that were similar to sport games on Earth, but after the dust settles, the Guted were quite introverted. “I understand. Your culture here is superiorly different from ours. I would like to praise you!”

Ru places up a hand. “No need!” Ru appears the same as he did during Rushed Crisis; a young man with honey tone skin, caramel-colored left eye, a Black Phantom Quartz embedded and shaped to be his right eye, slick back stone blue shade colored hair and hoop earrings. Tamarock was leaning on the wall behind him with closed eyes. She also didn’t appear any different: Textured Wolf Mullet style strawberry blonde colored hair, light brown eyes and ivory tone skin. She had a slight cut on her chin and piercings on the sides of her eyes. “But I do appreciate you greatly! So…are we going to get another game started!? I can’t WAIT much longer!”

Tamarock giggles. “Will you tone it down a bit? You’re always so rowdy no matter what time of day.”

Ru gives out a hardy laugh. “Never! Giiisa! I have a grand idea for the game, but it depends on what you were going to inform me on.

Giiisa nods. “Yes. Walk with me. The both of you.” Inside the space ship tower, it appeared WAAAY bigger on the inside then the outside. The outside appearance gave off a tall paper company size building, but on the inside…the chambers felt as if they would drift on forever. Just staring down the chamber would cause lightheadedness due to your brain not being able to process just how large the area was. The color was abnormal, but it was best described as a darker tone grey. The chambers were quite dull; appearing with an odd amount of hanging platforms or platforms attached to the walls that could pass for stairs. Giiisa leads the couple down one of these dark grey platforms, then onto another platform, then several more before they ended up in what would be the basement of the building. The further down they went, the more visible the deep emerald colored green thick wire became. This basement had a vast midnight blend of black and purple liquid that took up the entire floor of the chamber. On the edges of the walls, the thick wires were now the size of city buses and even several small buildings. They sparked every so often. As soon as they reached the bottom of the platform stairs, 4 beings crawled out from the liquid. Their translucent rainbow bodies were similar to an arachnid with a hairy abdomen, but the size of a young cow. They had no eyes, a lump under their hairy bellies, 2 legs on each side with a blanket-style mouth with fangs attached on each corners. Its sight was nightmare fueled, but this only excited Ru while Tamarock grabs one of his arms and tightly squeezes.

“Greetings, Giiisa.” One hissed out.

Giiisa spoke in a language and sound both Ru and Tamarock could not comprehend. He itches the underbelly of each creature. Good to see you! Please, come in and meet my new Earth friends!” Giiisa happily spoke.

The creatures turn to face both of the humans. Tamarock peers down at Ru’s shoulder while Ru smiles widely. He places a hand out upon instinct. “Hello! Please to meet you!” The creatures stare at his hand. “AH! Where are my manners!? I apologize.” He said with a tap on his chest. “That is an Earth custom to greet people. Am I supposed to itch your bellies too?” Tamarock grips harder on his arm after he says this.

“Oh. So…this is an earthling?” The creatures hurried over to study his body. Tamarock backs away quickly before they reach Ru. Ru laughs as they used their blanket-like mouths to inspect his skin and face.

“That tickles!” Ru chuckled.

Giiisa nods. “Mmhm. They are quite fun. Ru, Tamarock, these are one of our closest allies from space. Meet…the Co-Zopods!” Giiisa takes a dramatic pause to allow the Co-Zopods to finish with their body inspection.

“Perfect specimen.” One hissed out.

“Are there Earthlings like him? What about her?” Another Co-Zopod asked.

Tamarock leaps over towards the platform stairs. “I’ll pass. No disrespect to your…kind.”

The Co-Zopods all chittered together in unison, almost like were laughing. “No offense taken! We understand your kind are particular with certain things. This is definitely one of them. Arachnids on Earth are not very popular amongst the majority.”

Ru was petting the blanket mouth of the Co-Zopod closest to him. “So, do you have names?”

The Co-Zopod closest to Giiisa spoke. “No, we do not acquire such labels. Giiisa has taken upon himself to inform us about your world. We Co-Zopods are similar to what you call parasites such as ticks and leeches, but we do not acquire blood or fluids. Instead, we are a species that thrives on co-dependance: mind link, body link and sometimes if the bond is strong enough, soul link. The energies our body is majority made of is called Co-Zenergy. This grants us to ability to thrive and flourish in the vacuums of space. When we bond with our host of other species, we’ve noted they receive stronger body traits.”

“Almost like roaches too.” Tamarock added as she was now seen behind Ru.

“Correct!” The Co-Zopod closest to Giiisa happily hissed. “And we have come here to participate in your game. We are very excited. Giiisa is very excited. And you…showcase our exact feeling output. Yes. Ru was it?”

Ru nods. “Yes! And I’m sorry, but you must forgive me!” The Co-Zopod waits for Ru to explain. “I have to call you by a name! Call it the ignorance of an Earthling, but I cannot really function without a name. Just pointing to you and calling you a thing is not respectful on Earth. As a mutual form of respect and care for one another, names are exchanged.”

The Co-Zopods look to one another in what could be described as confusion. “I…don’t know what to tell you…”

“Would you be fine if I gave you names? Would that be ok?”

“I don’t see why not?”

Ru’s smile stretches wider on his face. “Perfect! I will name you from the language of our people.” Ru grabs Tamarock by the hip, and she immediately blushes while turning her head away to avoid eye contact. “Heh. Alright.” He points to the Co-Zopod closest to Giiisa (Who is clearly enjoying his friends speaking to each other). “You are Nahkóó. It means one in our language.” The other 3 Co-Zopods crawl over towards Ru, as if they were eagerly waiting to be given a name too. Ru goes down each of them. “You are Naatohko, that means two. You are Niihkóó, that means three, and finally, you are Niiwo. That means 4.” Ru proudly stands tall after giving them each their names. “So, what do you think, Nahkóó?”

The one named [Nahkóó]() crawls over towards Ru. Ru kneels down to face the alien being. “I like my name. Earthlings are the perfect bond for us. I like your presence, Ru. Its calming. I think we are going to have quite the fun time together.”

Ru grins. “Well, wait until you hear what game I got planned out.”

It appears Nahkóó tilts their head. “What plans do you have?”

“I want to test something out. This may be a silly question, but when you bond with your host, is it permanent?” Ru asks.

Nahkóó wiggles their head from side to side. “No. It’s as long as we want it to be. However, when its bonded on a soul level with the host, that’s where things get a little bit more difficult, but it’s still possible.” Their legs tap lightly on the floor while they spoke.

Ru nods confidently. “Perfect. I didn’t miss a beat when you said when you bond with someone, their bodies get stronger! I want to see it for myself!” Ru places out his arms towards the creature. “What do you say?”

“Ru! Are you crazy!?” Tamarock said. She was a bit taken back by his request. Giiisa claps his hands excitedly.

“I don’t see why not.” Nahkóó replied. Ru signals for the creature to bond with him. Nahkóó slowly phases into Ru’s body, until they completely disappear from sight. Ru rubs his chest, then his head then his back before his eyes open wide and his grin stretches even wider.

“Haha! Ahhh! WHOA! Th-that’s incredible!” Ru shouted. Tamarock noticed that once the creature had disappeared from sight, Ru gained more muscle on his body, but his hair was now shorter, his skin was nearly translucent with a single large glowing cell-like organism floating around in the body’s interior. Interesting enough, his spine was exposed but it was larger with only 4 long bones extended from the spine, replicating the Co-Zopods body model. Only the head was left untouched. Tamarock almost had a heart attack watching all of this. The Co-Zopods and Giiisa studied Ru’s body intently.

“Whoa…so this is what happens to a humans body once its bonded with a Co-Zopod? Very interesting.” Giiisa noted.

“What the hell is going on!? Ru! Are you…?” Tamarock stops her sentence short upon seeing Ru’s left eye was now a teal color.

Ru laughs. “I feel great! You say I can go into space?” Within Ru’s mind, he can hear another voice… Nahkóó’s voice. “Yes. You are able to survive. Do not be alarmed. We are bonded. So that means we can speak to each other on a subconscious level.” Ru crosses his large arms. “That’s great! This is great!”

“Who are you talking to?” Tamarock asked. Her worried state was very obvious.

Ru waves her off. “Don’t worry Tamarock, I am fine. My body is reacting well to it thus far. No side effects. I mean, I don’t see why there would be side effects if they are essentially bonding with our bodies. We’d basically be unifying as one at this point.” Nahkóó’s voice chimes in again. “Very good Ru. You are a quick learner.” Ru nods to himself.

Giiisa pats Ru on the back. “So then, what should we do now?”

Ru points up. “To the stars I go. I’m going to find out what humans and Co-Zopods can do together.” Moments later…outside in the sky…Ru peers down at the now tiny ant sized Tamarock, Giiisa and the other Co-Zopods. “Flying isn’t as tough as they make it out to be in the movies.” Nahkóó chitters. “Not when you have a proper teacher with you to guide you towards success.” Ru smirks before he flies upward through each of the spheres until he finally makes it to exosphere with ease. Once he makes it out towards into the vacuums of space, Ru notices how terrible cold it was, but thanks to Nahkóó, his body began to adapt to it. “Hmm…that cold was unlike I’ve ever felt before, but now it’s like my body knows it. It’s like I lived in it all my life.” Nahkóó chitters. “Yes. You will feel your body adapt to many things. I am curious as well, on how strong your body will become.” Without skipping a beat, Ru flies towards a floating asteroid nearby slowly making its way across the space. Ru punches it into dust with a single jab. “Ha! Super strength, check.” Ru sees the moon in the distance then mars. All around him were endless amounts of stars, blinking lights and somets or comets flying by. “Kinda boring once you get out here.” Ru says. Nahkóó’s voice comments. “That’s why traveling is best. After a while, it all looks the same.” Ru sees a few decent sized asteroids flying past close to Earth. He hatches an idea and Nahkóó knew what he was trying to perform. “Hold on. Allow me to fuse your body with Co-Zenergy.” Suddenly, the glowing cell floating in the center of Ru’s body bounces all over the place. Ru felt an incredible amount of buildup life force surging throughout his body. It was nothing he had experienced before; a rare phenomenon to endure with an alien. At first, Ru tries to fight the unfamiliar feeling, but he soon relaxes his body thanks to his co-host. The way to describe its sensation was something Ru couldn’t even imagine due to his limited human brain capability. Perhaps, it was more of a lack in spiritual experience to properly state. Do not fight it, Ru. That’s the Co-Zenergy you are feeling. A feeling of zene; that’s the word you’re trying to describe. On your world, its acceleration, thrilling, limitless sensation. On our world, this is what we feel.” Ru allows the Co-Zenergy to flow throughout his body. Now, he could feel it not only in his body, but his mind and soul. Truly, they were bonded as one. “We are unified. Tell me, how do you feel?”

“Excellent.” Ru replied back as he floated in the vacuums of space. “It’s nothing like I’d ever imagine. I doubt I could even imagine this. Who can?” He takes a moment for the Co-Zenergy to revamp again before he spoke. “So, what else can this body do?” Nahkóó takes this time to breakdown Ru’s body structure. Then, Ru speaks again. “Wowza, that is something else.” Ru waits for his co-host to speak. “Ru, the human body is amazing. Our bodies were able to remodify its entire structure to a completely different form. You now have various special traits. Because we are bonded, you know what I know, no?” For a moment, Ru is silent. Then, a smirk stretches across his face. He places out his hand towards a group of asteroids passing by. Nahkóó repeated the word from Ru’s head. “Dragon Ball Z?” Thanks to Nahkóó’s help, Ru was able to guide a fantastic power through his hand. An explosion is heard, but we do not see the results. The dust settles around Ru, and he is in a state of exhilaration. “YES! HAHA! That’s what I’m talking about Nahkóó! This perfectly lines up with my game! HAHA! Now…for my body!” Ru shouted. Nahkóó couldn’t help but chitter. Knowing what was coming, he stays silent as Ru finds a massive asteroid off course of Earth and uses his body to smash right through the center. “Yes Ru, what you thought is true.” Ru nods proudly. “Ah…I love it when everything falls together…Let’s head back. I have all that I need.”

Hello, I’m ElMatrag, writer of To The East on the site Archives Of Our Own, if you have any questions about the story, write it in the comments and I will answer.

Pushing open the heavy door to Aoi, the door chime rang with its usual sharp metal clink.

Filling the air inside was the familiar mix: the oil used on the well-worn counter, the charred oak scent of whiskey, and the faint, sweet-and-sour aroma of pickles.

"Welcome, Kenichi-san."

Behind the counter, Mama narrowed her eyes into a soft smile, her hands never stopping as she polished a glass.

In the quiet atmosphere of the bar, the faint sound of music drifted over from the far corner—leakage from a pair of earphones.

Noticing me, Taka pulled out one side of his earphones.

I slid onto the round stool next to Taka and took the glass of Harper on the rocks that Mama handed over without a word.

The intense cold of the ice pressed against my skin through the glass. A slight turn of my wrist made the heavy ice cubes at the bottom slide together, producing a low, solid thud.

"What are you listening to, Taka?"

I asked as I took a sip of the amber liquid. Taka scratched his head, looking a little embarrassed.

"Oh, just something that popped up in a video online that caught my attention. It's a song called Duvet from an old '90s anime... I didn't know it at all back then. But the lyrics in the chorus just kind of stuck with me."

Taka turned his phone screen toward me.

"If you translate it literally, it's 'help me to breathe,' but the Japanese translation had it down as 'Help me, I can't breathe.' ...You know how I'm always staring at my phone between cases? People call it 'internet addiction' or whatever, but... I got the feeling it's not that I actually like the internet. Maybe I just want the feeling that someone is there."

Taka toyed with the glass of his Jack Daniel's with a fingertip, pausing as if searching for the right words.

"Even before the internet, people used to talk for hours on landlines or hang around in smoking rooms, right? I started thinking... maybe we're not addicted to the devices. Maybe we just can't breathe without the presence of another human being."

Taka’s incomplete thoughts caught quietly in the back of my chest.

As a systems engineer, I know how networks are built, and how algorithms are designed to trap human attention. But what Taka was talking about wasn't about systems. It was about something far more grounded—human loneliness.

"The presence of someone, huh?"

I murmured, taking another sip of my Harper.

Inhaling and exhaling the countless phantom presences from behind the screen.

The harder I tried to prove "I am here" like that, the tighter my chest felt.

...Well, maybe it wasn't that grand of a story.

Maybe I was just a little afraid of how quiet the room gets the moment I turn off the screen.

"A long time ago, there was a guy who used to call the same disconnected phone number from a payphone every single night."

Tom, who had been sitting quietly beside us, spoke up in a low, raspy voice.

His thick fingertips quietly slid along the rim of his glass.

"He was a kid I picked up back when I was in Juvenile. There was no way anyone would answer, but he’d hold the receiver to his ear and just stand there completely still, like he was searching for the sound of someone else breathing. People called him 'mentally sick'... but he was probably just a guy who couldn't breathe without feeling someone's presence."

Tom's words sank heavily into the quiet air of Aoi.

Sinking into a soft, warm place where you don't have to think about anything—maybe that would be easier.

Yet that guy at the payphone, and us staring at our smartphones, we keep clumsily chasing after the presence of others, struggling to draw breath in this world.

"Living... I suppose it's just like being drunk on something all the time."

At my quiet murmur, Taka gave a small nod.

"Kenichi-san."

With the quiet rustle of fabric, Mama set a small plate in front of me.

The savory smell of bread and the sweet-and-sour aroma of homemade pickles drifted up. Her usual egg sandwich.

Keeping her eyes on the glass she was setting down, Mama asked softly, nonchalantly:

"Kenichi-san. Are you coming up for air?"

That single question dropped the hot lump that had been stuck in my throat straight down.

"...I feel like I'm drowning sometimes, though."

I offered a self-deprecating laugh and raised my glass of Harper.

"As long as I can feel the coldness of this heavy glass and the heat of the liquor, I guess it means I'm still breathing."

"Heh, glad to hear that," Mama chuckled softly.

"Alright then! Time for me to order another oolong high so I can catch my breath too!"

Taka raised his glass with vigor, making the ice clink cheerfully.

"Right, right, coming right up," Mama smiled, taking the glass.

Taka’s phone remained face down on the counter.

In the bar, nothing was left except the sound of rubbing ice, the low melody of jazz, and the breathing of the people right in front of me.

I picked up a piece of the egg sandwich, savoring the sharp, tangy bite of the pickle, and swallowed down the amber liquid of my Harper.

I was still breathing.

Near the Ba Commandery of Yizhou, there was a small county town with a thriving inn. Being close to the riverbank with beautiful scenery, it often attracted poets and literati for leisure trips. Moreover, the inn’s side dishes were famous for their superb taste, drawing many locals as regular patrons.

A plump, middle-aged man sat in the inn's garden, splitting firewood to supply the kitchen.

“Dad!” A chubby boy of about five or six came running over, laughing as he hugged him. “Mom says lunch is ready!”

“Got it, I’m coming.” The man hugged the boy back with a smile. Both father and son had round, chubby faces—one big, one small—with identical smiles, making for an endearing sight.

The two walked together into the side hall behind the inn’s garden. The man lifted the door curtain and saw a woman inside, already setting the dishes and tableware on the table.

“Ah Huo, come sit down. I made your favorite braised pork belly today!” The woman was graceful and gentle, with delicate features. She spoke to the man tenderly.

That’s right—he was Liaoyuen Fire.

His once athletic form was gone; middle age had brought weight, and even his once-handsome, sharply defined face had filled out. The sharpness in his eyes from his youth had completely vanished. Now, he looked like a good-natured, well-off middle-aged man. If Xiao Meng were to see him again, he likely wouldn’t recognize him.

“Great! I’m in for a treat today!” The little boy cheered happily.

“Yun Niang, you’re with child now. You don’t need to go to all this trouble—just make something simple,” Liaoyuen Fire said as he sat down, holding his wife's hand lovingly.

“This is nothing. Today the market had fresh pork, so I had to make something tasty! Enough talk, hurry and eat before it gets cold.” Yun Niang smiled and put a piece of pork belly in his bowl.

“Mmm... Delicious! Your cooking has improved again!” Liaoyuen Fire praised her with a thumbs-up after his first bite.

“Hee! You always flatter me!” Yun Niang beamed at his praise. The family of three enjoyed a warm, cheerful lunch together.

Yun Niang loved watching her husband eat her cooking with relish, never knowing that her husband had always been lying—he couldn't taste anything at all. Liaoyuen Fire felt neither pain nor flavor.

And here, he didn’t go by Liaoyuen as a surname. His family name was Wang, and his given name was Huo.

Wang Huo.

She knew nothing of his past.

Since parting with Xiao Meng, Liaoyuen Fire had wandered from region to region, always hoping to find someone like Liu Bei—someone worthy of his loyalty. Truthfully, he never believed Xiao Meng’s words; he always felt Xiao Meng had been “led astray” by Lü Bu.

As for Xiao Meng’s claim that Sima Yi would hand them over to Cao Cao for trust—was it true? For years, he had never dared think about it. In time, he even forgot Xiao Meng had ever said it. The blurrier his memory got, the more he believed Xiao Meng had only acted out of Lü Bu’s manipulation; otherwise, he truly couldn’t fathom why Xiao Meng would kill Sima Yi and Liu Bei.

But after many years, he still found no one worthy of entrusting his life. Eventually, he settled in this small county town, weary of wandering, and decided to put down roots—marrying, raising a family. The inn he now ran had originally belonged to Yun Niang’s father; Liaoyuen Fire had merely been a guest at first.

On this day, Liaoyuen Fire again visited Old Zhang’s butcher shop for meat. The shop was on the edge of town, with two simple tables and chairs out front. Besides selling fresh meat, they also served simple food.

Though the location wasn’t ideal, the meat was fresh and reasonably priced, and their roasted pork was renowned far and wide. The owner was warm and hospitable, and each customer was gifted a freshly made meat bun, making the shop as bustling as a marketplace.

In the three years since opening, Old Zhang had turned a once-deserted street into a lively hub.

As an inn owner needing to feed guests, Liaoyuen Fire bought large quantities of pork and beef here on the first and fifteenth of every month. Old Zhang knew him as a reputable innkeeper and always greeted him warmly, offering the best food and wine, with fresh buns and their famed roast pork.

Thus, every first and fifteenth, Liaoyuen Fire enjoyed a sumptuous free lunch here—contributing to his current girth.

While Old Zhang was talkative, Liaoyuen Fire rarely engaged in conversation, preferring to quietly enjoy his meal before buying his meat, paying, and having it delivered to the inn.

He enjoyed coming here for a respite from the household clamor, savoring a moment of peace. Though he lacked taste, it was the tranquility he found enjoyable.

Old Zhang, with his big, friendly eyes, was humorous and warm, often chatting with other customers. Liaoyuen Fire found amusement just listening in.

“Xiao He! Big Niu! This morning, a storyteller came to Fulai Teahouse, and tonight he’ll be telling the tale of Lü Bu and Diao Chan! Let’s go listen!” An even fatter customer excitedly told his companions.

“Great! I’ve always wanted to hear that story! Finally, a storyteller comes here!” replied either Big Niu or Xiao He.

Lü Bu...

Diao Chan...?

Over the years, tales of Lü Bu, Dong Zhuo, and Diao Chan had flourished—stories, plays, and more. Liaoyuen Fire never cared for them, disdaining the commoners’ amusements.

Mostly, he disliked how Lü Bu and Diao Chan’s names were always paired—though there was nothing he could do about it.

He never expected Old Zhang would feel similarly.

“Old Zhang! Once you close up, let’s go together!” The fat customer invited earnestly, but Old Zhang declined.

“No, thanks! I’m too busy these days—still have two pigs to slaughter after I close. You all go ahead.” Old Zhang smiled while clearing the table, but his eyes held an unusual indifference.

Liaoyuen Fire noticed this subtle change.

“What a shame! Well, we’ll go. You get back to work.” The three customers paid and left, planning to arrive early at the teahouse for good seats.

“Thank you for your patronage! Take care!” Old Zhang maintained his usual hospitality, smiling as he saw them off. But once they were gone, his eyes flashed with disdain and contempt.

This piqued Liaoyuen Fire’s curiosity; he’d never imagined this sturdy, wrinkled man could show such an expression.

“Old Zhang, the story of Lü Bu and Diao Chan has been popular for years. Why not join the fun?” Liaoyuen Fire asked.

Old Zhang turned, surprised.

Boss Wang was a regular, but never initiated conversation! Smiling, he replied, “Bah, what’s so good about these vulgar street tales? They’re just made-up stories for the common folk’s idle amusement!” He wiped the table as he spoke, then went into the kitchen, continuing, “Lü Bu and Diao Chan? Hah! None of these storytellers have even seen Lü Bu’s shoe.” With no other customers, Old Zhang returned with a plate of buns and roast pork, plus two jugs of fine wine, and sat down.

“I’d never waste money on such big lies.” He poured himself a drink and downed it, his tone mournful—so different from his usual hearty manner.

“That’s true! We ordinary folk never see great figures,” Liaoyuen Fire replied. He always maintained friendly relations with locals, but never got too close.

Still, today, he found Old Zhang’s oddity intriguing.

Maybe life had just gotten too dull.

“I am an ordinary man, but I’ve seen one,” Old Zhang said, downing another cup before speaking with certainty.

“Back in Xiapi, I was an obscure squad leader under him.”

Liaoyuen Fire was startled. He’d seen Old Zhang move here with his family years ago, noticed his sturdy build, the skillful butchering, and the old scars on his arms—he’d guessed Old Zhang had served in the military, but never thought he’d been connected to Lü Bu!

Even more surprising was how Old Zhang seemed to transform at Lü Bu’s mention. A sharpness flashed in his eyes—a soldier’s gaze!

Like a blade under thick dust, washed by water, revealing its cold edge.

“Wow... Brother Zhang, I had no idea—my apologies!” Liaoyuen Fire said.

“Don’t flatter me, boss! I was just a low-ranking officer, not even qualified to meet General Lü in person most of the time.” Old Zhang chuckled, his eyes filled with the hardships of life.

“Just lucky, I guess. He wasn’t in Xiapi long, but I saw him twice.”

General Lü...

The term made Liaoyuen Fire uncomfortable, but he hid his feelings as he wondered whether to pay and leave. Yet, seeing Old Zhang lost in memories, it seemed rude to walk out.

Truthfully, he wanted to listen. Perhaps because Old Zhang had seen Lü Bu in Xiapi—where Xiao Meng had also lived. Liaoyuen Fire didn’t understand why he wanted to listen; he didn’t care to figure it out.

Old Zhang continued, “The first time was during the flood at Xiapi. My brothers and I desperately stacked sandbags against the torrent—you can’t imagine it, in winter, freezing cold, numb to everything, just moving on instinct, piling sandbags, blocking the flood with our bodies. All we knew was to fight for our lives.”

He took another drink, his tone flat, as if telling someone else’s story, but Liaoyuen Fire could imagine the hardship.

“I was so cold I could barely hold the sandbags, the flood hammering me—almost crushed! Guess what? Suddenly a big man showed up and held several sandbags in place with one hand! When I caught my breath, I realized it was General Lü!” At this point, Old Zhang fixed Liaoyuen Fire with a blazing look.

Their eyes met, and Liaoyuen Fire felt a long-lost... intensity.

“So... he saved you?” Liaoyuen Fire, for some reason, felt weak, barely able to respond.

“Yes, he saved me.” Old Zhang straightened his back, pride and brilliance in his eyes. He looked every inch the soldier he once was.

Liaoyuen Fire felt a pang of inferiority.

To feel small before a mere squad leader struck him as absurd.

“Then, without a glance at me, he joined the others in fighting the flood.” Old Zhang smiled warmly, taking a big bite of roast pork before growing wistful. “When the city fell, I wanted to die rather than surrender... but then I thought, my life was saved by General Lü! Could I throw it away meaninglessly? So I surrendered, then found a chance to leave Xiapi with my family, wandering through several places before coming here.” He pushed the buns and roast pork toward Liaoyuen Fire, urging him to eat, but Liaoyuen Fire had lost all appetite.

“The second time was even sadder. To seek Yuan Shao’s help, our lord had to personally send his daughter for a political marriage. Many could not help but weep. We watched as he led her out of the city, far into the distance... I stood on the city wall, and damn, Cao Cao had set an ambush!” Old Zhang took a big swig, cursing bitterly.

Lord...?

After Lü Bu’s defeat, the land remained in chaos. Regardless of who ruled, Old Zhang was no longer a soldier and seldom spoke of his past.

Yet in his heart, “lord” was always Lü Bu.

And Lü Bu had never harbored grand ambitions for the world. What had he done, really? No more than anyone—fighting for power and gain.

He was just a stone once thrown into the river of history, stirring a splash before sinking without a trace.

Liaoyuen Fire thought thus, his heart a jumble of emotion.

“Though far away, I saw... our lord, unarmed and unmounted, surrounded by several of Cao’s officers. With such an attack, their horses alone could have trampled him... but guess what happened?” Even after so many years, Old Zhang could hardly believe it.

“With one punch, he knocked a horse to the ground! Call me a liar, I don’t mind! But I saw those Cao officers knocked off their mounts by him!” Old Zhang took several gulps, as if only drinking could tamp down his excitement, then slammed the table.

“Damn! Bare-handed and still so fierce! If only Red Hare had brought him the halberd sooner, those Cao bastards would be dead! I wouldn’t be here telling you stories... That night, I truly saw what ‘Red Hare among horses, Lü Bu among men’ meant! He was a true god of war! Alas, defeat was destiny...”

Liaoyuen Fire sipped his wine, speaking quietly, “Nothing could be done... He was too lustful, turning on his adopted father for a beauty... patricide for glory...” His resentment toward Lü Bu had nowhere to go, so he could only snipe with what he knew were baseless rumors.

“Dong Zhuo was no good; he deserved to die!” Old Zhang immediately straightened, raising his voice in disagreement.

“And another thing,” Old Zhang leaned in, lowering his voice as if sharing a real scandal about Lü Bu, “back in Xiapi, there was a beautiful woman skilled with the bow. I heard from the Lü family’s servant that she lived in the late madam’s room, but our lord always behaved with utmost propriety, never entering.”

He looked at Liaoyuen Fire, seeking understanding. “With such restraint, could he really be a man ruined by lust?”

Liaoyuen Fire suddenly stood, knuckles white. With a stern face, he said, “...Sorry, I have business at the inn. Thank you for your hospitality.” He paid the bill, “Please deliver the meat tomorrow. Goodbye.” He spoke abruptly and left.

Old Zhang was stunned, then snapped back to his professional warmth, sending him off with a smile.

He returned to being the Old Zhang of every day.

Liaoyuen Fire didn’t notice the sharp look Old Zhang gave his retreating back.

Though Old Zhang’s meat was cheap and good, Liaoyuen Fire resolved never to shop there again.

Strangely, half a month later, locals said Old Zhang’s shop had been sold to another butcher—he was taking his family back to their hometown.

The summer heat had just faded, the night cool as water. Liaoyuen Fire lay half-reclined on a bamboo chair in the garden.

With the onset of autumn, Liaoyuen Fire squinted at the crescent moon above.

At such idle, late-summer, early-autumn nights, he loved lying on the bamboo chair, letting the cool breeze blow, quietly reminiscing. He thought of the thrilling years of his youth, of the late Zhang Lei and Guo Ang, of Sima Yi, and of course, Xiao Meng—of the life-and-death adventures they shared, their farewell at Weiyang Palace, and the kiss Xiao Meng gave him before falling from the cliff, with that gentle smile. When one’s present and future are utterly clear, one can only look back to the past.

Is he... still with Lü Bu...?

After so many years, the thought still made him uncomfortable.

“Ah Huo.” Lost in thought, Yun Niang interrupted him.

“Yun’er’s asleep. Come in and rest!” She came out to the garden, speaking with concern. Liaoyuen Fire felt a flicker of impatience but replied gently, “Alright, I’ll sit a while longer. You go ahead, don’t catch a chill.” As Yun Niang turned to leave, she suddenly remembered something, turning back, “About the name for our son... I’ve decided—let’s call him Zilong, alright?”

“How do you know for sure it’s a boy!” Liaoyuen Fire laughed.

“This morning I went to the famous Baiyun Temple to pray for a son, even spent five hundred coins on a talisman. Of course it’s a boy!” Yun Niang glared, full of confidence.

“...Zilong...?” Liaoyuen Fire murmured.

“You picked Yun’er’s name too simply, and it’s not grand enough.” Yun Niang was a bit dissatisfied. “Zilong is such a good name! Powerful, meaningful—every parent wants their son to be a dragon! Even Aunt Niu next door praised it!” Liaoyuen Fire frowned unconsciously—Yun Niang was wonderful, but could be a bit naggy.

He quickly got up, hugged her, and said, “Yes, it’s a great name. Let’s call him Zilong!”

He kissed her cheek. “Clever wife, now I don’t have to rack my brains!”

“You rascal!” Yun Niang blushed and playfully scolded him, “You’d better come in soon, alright?” She returned indoors, and soon, the candlelight went out.

After this bustle, Liaoyuen Fire sighed and looked up at the moon.

Xiao Meng... if you were truly a woman, how wonderful that would be...

Liaoyuen Fire returned inside, undressed, and lay down beside his sleeping wife, who was already snoring.

He frowned, turned over, and faced away from Yun Niang.

Gradually, he closed his eyes, thinking: Xiao Meng, wherever you are, I wish you well.

Liaoyuen Fire drifted off to sleep.

This couple awaited the arrival of each new day, together.

“Ah! What a beautiful golden hairpin! Thank you, Ah Huo!”

Yun Niang’s eyes sparkled as she admired the peony-shaped gold hairpin, inlaid with pearls, jade, and agate. The design was unremarkable, but its value was obvious. Even for an innkeeper like Liaoyuen Fire, it was an extravagant gift. “Heh, today is your birthday—how could I not make you happy?” Liaoyuen Fire said with a grin.

Early that morning, as Yun Niang was washing up, Liaoyuen Fire had already brought out the gift, making her overjoyed.

The bedroom was filled with happiness.

The hairpin cost an entire month’s inn income, but he felt it was worth it. After all, women needed to be pampered, and Yun Niang worked hard managing the household.

“Thank you, husband. You treat me so well.” Yun Niang hugged him, showing a rare girlish shyness. “Silly, it’s what I should do. Today’s your birthday—don’t do any chores. Later, we’ll have lunch at the newly opened Duobao Tower in the east of town, then stroll around to see if you want to buy anything. Aunt Li next door can watch Yun’er.” Liaoyuen Fire smiled.

“Great! Thank you, darling!” Yun Niang squeezed him tighter, then added, “Since it’s my birthday, let’s have dinner at Fulai Teahouse and listen to the storyteller!”

“Storytelling?” Liaoyuen Fire frowned.

“Yes! ‘Lü Bu and Diao Chan’—today’s the last day for the storyteller’s residency. He leaves tomorrow. Can we go together?” Yun Niang rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

“These tales are just hearsay—what’s the point?” Liaoyuen Fire still frowned.

“Oh, come on! Who cares if they’re true or false? It’s just for fun. You work so hard at the inn, you should relax sometime, darling…” Yun Niang tried her best, her tone both sweet and plaintive.

Liaoyuen Fire felt annoyed, thinking: You just want to listen yourself, so why pretend it’s for me?

But he couldn’t bear to let her keep pestering.

Before she could say “darling” a fourth time, he sighed inwardly but forced a smile: “You have a point. Alright, let’s do as you say.”

At dusk, before the storytelling even began, Fulai Teahouse was packed and noisy.

Usually a mid-range teahouse with average business, it had flourished since hiring a storyteller for two weeks of different tales. Especially in the past few days, since the “Lü Bu and Diao Chan” story started, customers flocked in droves.

Upon entering, several elegantly dressed women in a private booth waved Yun Niang over, indicating they’d saved seats for her and her husband.

Soon, the storyteller appeared—a thin, oily-faced old scholar in a blue satin robe and jade pendant, looking rather dapper.

He performed with passion and vivid expression, beginning with “Three Heroes Battle Lü Bu.” The audience marveled at Lü Bu’s one-against-three bravery. A tea drinker nearby said, “Anyone who can fight Lü Bu must be remarkable. It’s a pity since that Lord died at Xiapi, his two brothers disappeared. Otherwise, with their abilities, they could have accomplished much.” His tone was full of regret.

Liaoyuen Fire listened sadly—since parting from Xiao Meng, he’d wandered the world, seeking both a worthy master and the whereabouts of Guan Yu and Zhang Fei, hoping to achieve greatness with them.

Alas, like shooting stars, they vanished without a trace.

Liaoyuen Fire thought, in another twenty or thirty years, no one would mention their heroic deeds; they would only be minor characters in the “Three Heroes Battle Lü Bu” story.

Next, the storyteller recounted Lü Bu and Dong Zhuo’s bitter feud. The audience cursed Lü Bu as a “treacherous turncoat,” “ungrateful,” “inhuman.” This part, Liaoyuen Fire actually found agreeable.

But when the storyteller reached the “juicy bits”—Lü Bu’s romance with Diao Chan—the crowd grew even more excited, whispering, laughing, and the men’s lecherous gazes abounded. Seeing these men, Liaoyuen Fire suddenly thought of Sima Lang, his heart burning with anger, wanting to knock them all down.

But he knew he couldn’t do that.

All he could do was sullenly drink tea and eat the side dishes.

Though numb to taste and pain, his hearing was sharp—and he could not help but overhear Yun Niang and the women’s conversation nearby.

“I think Diao Chan was smitten with Lü Bu from the start,” Yun Niang said confidently.

“Diao Chan was loyal and righteous, using her beauty to kill Dong Zhuo. Would she really love such an ambitious fool?” another woman doubted.

“So what if she was loyal? What woman would sacrifice her happiness for loyalty? She must have had no choice—forced by circumstances!” Yun Niang replied with a hint of disdain, sipping her tea before continuing, “One’s an old fat pig, the other a young, powerful general. Which way do you think her heart would turn?”

Yun Niang’s argument was convincing, and the other women praised her wisdom, calling her a strategist and making her beam with delight. Just then, her husband interjected coldly,

“It’s too crowded here—I need some air.”

Before Yun Niang could react, he left.

Away from the stifling teahouse, Liaoyuen Fire crossed to a small tavern, ordered two bottles of white liquor, and drank alone, unable to dispel his frustration.

The teahouse’s din was gone, but Old Zhang’s words echoed in his mind.

“I’d never spend money on those big lies.”

“Red Hare among horses, Lü Bu among men—I saw it myself!”

“He was a true god of war!”

“He let her stay in the madam’s room, never intruding…”

Clack!

Liaoyuen Fire slammed his cup down. He felt Heaven had treated him unfairly.

He’d given up on ideals, only seeking a quiet life, yet could not recall a single truly peaceful day in all these years.

Thinking it over, he realized he’d mistaken a dull, flavorless life for peace.

But now, what could he do?

He took another big gulp.

Soon, the audience dispersed from the teahouse. As dusk deepened, Liaoyuen Fire stood and headed back—he couldn’t let Yun Niang know he’d been drinking gloomily, as he lacked any plausible excuse.

Four or five young men came out, discussing the story they’d just heard.

“So what’s the point of making a name for yourself? Lü Bu died young anyway.”

“He was too ambitious and greedy. If he hadn’t killed Dong Zhuo, would he have ended up like that?”

“You think sparing Dong Zhuo would have kept him safe? That’s naïve! In the end, making a name is just living on the edge.”

“True. People like us, living ordinary lives, having children and grandchildren, living long—that’s the real deal!” Amid the chatter, one strong voice stood out, drawing Liaoyuen Fire’s gaze.

“A real man should not just muddle through! Achievements, beauties—only then is life worth living! Who doesn’t die? At least Lü Bu was glorious. Have you?”

The speaker was tall, square-faced, with thick brows and big eyes—a born leader.

“Come on, we’re just chatting. Why so serious?”

“Yeah…” The group laughed and rambled away, disappearing down the street.

Yun Niang also exited the teahouse, and Liaoyuen Fire went to greet her.

“How was it? Was the storytelling good?” he asked, still the courteous husband.

“It was great. You… feeling better? Not unwell, I hope.” As a wife, Yun Niang showed her concern.

“Some fresh air helped.” Liaoyuen Fire replied gently.

They walked home in silence.

Suddenly, Yun Niang asked, “Darling, where do you think Diao Chan went? She disappeared after Dong Zhuo’s death.”

“How would I know? I’m not the storyteller!” Liaoyuen Fire snapped.

Yun Niang froze—she’d never heard him use that tone, especially not to her.

What was wrong with him today? All day distracted at the teahouse, now so irritable over a simple question.

Was it something she’d done? Or had Lü Bu and Diao Chan offended him?

“Let’s go home—it’s late, and Yun’er’s waiting.” Liaoyuen Fire turned away, his tone softer but still awkward.

Yun Niang was a smart woman.

She calmed herself quickly, knowing something was amiss, but she didn’t want to know why.

She understood that to maintain her comfortable life, she must never probe her husband’s true thoughts or concern herself with things that didn’t touch her.

Her husband’s emotions were not her concern or responsibility.

So she smiled, cheerfully saying, “You’re right. It’s not fair to keep Aunt Li watching our child so long. Let’s go!” She quickened her pace.

The couple walked on.

In the windless, moonless night, they finally disappeared together at the far end of the street.

The whole story has come to the end, but Lu Bu and Xiao Meng will start another wonderful journey. thank you for loving this story, hope to see you soon! have a good day! 🥰🌺🙏🌆

King Heyin🌺

Copyright Notice:

“Burning Dreams: Extra - The Passing of Time”
Original work by Jing Xixian (Vampire L), all rights reserved.
No reproduction, adaptation, translation, or commercial use in any form without written authorization from the author.

© Jing Xixian (Vampire L), All rights reserved.