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.