A man sat slumped in a lonely plastic chair outside a dim hospital room, the kind set beneath fluorescent lights that washed everything in a pale, indifferent glow. A long black trench coat draped over his broad frame, its hem brushing against the tiles each time his leg trembled. A tall tophat sat low on his head, shadowing most of his face, though the tension in the corners of his mouth and the way he pressed both hands tightly against it betrayed the storm beneath his composure.
His posture suggested worry—but the outward signs were only a fraction of what churned inside him.
He had been there for hours. Not once had he stood to stretch his legs, not once had he excused himself to use the restroom, and not once had he walked to the nearby vending machine for food or water. He hadn't even thought of home. Every minute, every breath, every heartbeat was anchored to the door beside him.
When that door finally opened, the sudden motion nearly jolted him from his seat; it was the first time he had moved in hours.
A doctor stepped out, still in his scrubs, exhaustion softening his expression into something unbearably apologetic. His eyes met the man's, and in that instant the man already knew the answer, as though fate had whispered it to him long before the doctor spoke.
"I'm sorry," the doctor said quietly, his voice weighted with genuine grief. "We've tried everything… but her condition is beyond saving."
The man rose to his full height, towering over the doctor by two whole heads. His hands shot forward, gripping the doctor's shoulders with the desperate strength of someone trying to cling to the world before it collapsed beneath him.
"Please!" he begged, the word cracking. "I'll pay you—one million, ten million—whatever you want! Please… you have to save her!"
His voice wavered, a breath away from breaking entirely, as tears threatened to spill from under the brim of his hat.
The doctor steadied himself, placing gentle hands over the man's trembling ones. He was fighting his own grief; he had seen powerful men fall apart before, but never like this—never with such raw, unguarded despair.
"There is nothing we can do," the doctor said softly. "Even with infinite funding, even with a thousand years of technological advancement… death is something humanity has never been able to outrun. I'm truly sorry, Mr. Edson."
The man's grip loosened.
His knees buckled beneath him.
And with a hollow sound that echoed faintly down the hall, he fell to the floor, buried his face in his hands, and let the weight of his sorrow crash through him.
---
June 17th, 2011
It was the kind of warm, gentle day that seemed crafted specifically for childhood: the sun half-hidden behind towering clouds, the breeze soft and cool like a sigh of comfort drifting across a quiet neighborhood.
Two freshly turned nine-year-old boys tore across a yard of thick, dark green grass, hurling water balloons at each other with wild, breathless laughter. In the center of the lawn sat a small blue plastic pool filled to the brim, beside it a green garden hose attached to a balloon-filling ring. The yard smelled of wet grass, sunscreen, and the plastic tang of water toys left too long in the sun.
On the porch, a fifty-year-old woman rocked gently in her wooden chair. She watched the boys with a soft smile, her hands folded in her lap as though holding the moment tenderly.
The water balloon battle grew steadily rougher—the throws sharper, the splashes louder. The woman squinted, then raised her voice with the force only a seasoned mother could summon.
"Hey! That's enough, you two—you'll get yourselves hurt! And come here for a moment!"
The boys froze immediately.
It wasn't fear—just instinct, the natural obedience children showed someone they loved and respected. They placed the remaining balloons into the pool and shuffled toward the porch, eyes downcast in guilty unison.
"Rowan, dear," the woman said gently, "could you go inside and fetch my reading glasses? I may have left them on my bedside table… or perhaps in the bathroom."
Rowan, the boy on the right, nodded and slipped into the house, leaving her alone with the other child—her only son, the center of her entire life.
Her expression softened, though a shadow of resignation lingered behind her eyes. "I don't need to remind you of this… but I won't be alive forever."
Her son's shoulders stiffened. He didn't fully grasp the depth of her illness—that level of understanding belonged to adults. But even at nine, he knew enough to recognize that no medicine, no lifestyle change, no prayer had made her better. Everything she had tried had failed.
"It's all right," he whispered, unable to meet her gaze.
She reached out, touching his cheek with a fragile hand.
"But I need you to understand something, Sullivan."
He looked up at her, tears already forming in his eyes.
"When I die, I don't want you to remember me only as a fragile, sick woman. If you cling to that image, it will hold you back… it will chain you to fear and regret. You cannot live like that—not with a heart as brave and brilliant as yours."
She pulled him closer, her voice trembling as much as her hands.
"If you have a dream, reach for it. And if it's too high, aim for it. And if you fail, then you fail, but do not surrender. Try another way. I believe in you with everything I have. Don't be afraid of disappointing me—fear failing yourself. That kind of failure… is what makes a man truly suffer."
She closed her eyes, the tears escaping despite her will. "And if something is impossible… then it is impossible. You are only human, Sullivan. At the end of the day... you are just a man."
He clung to her, crying openly now.
And she held him with all the strength her weakening body could offer.
Rowan returned moments later, reading glasses in hand. The air was thick with emotion, but he said nothing—just offered the case quietly. She accepted it, slipped on her glasses, and with a bright smile that tried to sweep away the heaviness of the moment, said:
"Now then… who wants to eat out?"
---
November 7th, 2032, 6 a.m., Somerset, Kentucky.
Two men knelt in the cold morning air, bodies trembling, breath ragged, blood running in thin, uneven streams down their necks and across their foreheads. Neither could lift so much as a finger. A gravity-altering attack—crushing and absolute—held them pinned to the earth.
The man on the right was the Cyclops Monarch, Sullivan Edson. His injuries were by far the more severe. His left arm was simply gone, severed so cleanly it almost looked unreal, and his eyelids struggled to remain open, fluttering like failing shutters in a storm.
The man on the left was the Basilisk Monarch, Rowan Rusty. His wounds were not as catastrophic as Sullivan's, yet still deep enough to threaten his life with every passing second.
Both men wore modern clothing layered beneath long black trench coats meant for the biting Kentucky chill. Sullivan had dark black hair and equally somber brown eyes, while Rowan carried a lighter palette—light brown hair and sharp blue eyes that had dimmed with exhaustion.
And before them stood the creature responsible for all of it: a Beast of Ruin—towering, unnatural, and far beyond any they had ever encountered, whether in their earliest years or their most recent hunts. They had known from the moment the fight began that one of them would die. Now they understood that both would. They had come alone to track and eliminate the Beasts terrorizing the nation; neither had ever imagined that their combined strength would not be enough to survive.
The Cyclops and Basilisk Monarchs ranked fourth and sixth among all Monarchs—were giants in their own right. Bringing down either one of them was a task only the Chimera Monarch could realistically accomplish.
And yet here they were—broken, cornered, and moments away from death—undone not by a Minister, not by another Monarch, but by a Beast of Ruin they now realized was a true monster.
Rowan glanced toward Sullivan, offering a weak, crooked smile. "Hey… you never did tell me what happened that day," Rowan said, then continued, "You cliffhanging bastard."
Sullivan exhaled shakily. "She told me she believed in me… told me I was capable of many great things." His voice tightened. "But she was wrong. The only great thing I ever could've done was save her. Save her from that damned illness."
He clenched his fists. "And yet here I am—on the brink of death—while she still lies in that hospital. I failed her."
"Sullivan," Rowan said firmly, "there was nothing you could have done. Her illness went beyond anything modern science could explain. You said it yourself—'cancer was a mere cold in comparison.' Don't blame yourself for the impossible. And don't diminish yourself. You are extraordinary. Saying otherwise is an insult to every miracle you've accomplished."
"Maybe…" Sullivan murmured, a faint smile flickering across his lips. "But I suppose my extraordinary life is over. I've done many great things… but I failed where it mattered most."
Rowan allowed a small, knowing smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth, sensing that the heaviness in the air needed the gentlest nudge. After a brief pause, he decided that a light-hearted jab—nothing sharp, just enough to loosen the tension—would serve the moment better than silence.
"Looks like the day you finally get to take off," he rasped, each word scraping out of his throat, "will be your permanent vacation."
The Cyclops Monarch lowered his gaze to the dirt, yet his mind drifted further than that. Rowan was right. Sullivan had long dreamed of a vacation he knew would never come. And even if it did, it would only mean his service—his purpose—was over. Another terrifying reality.
He lifted his head, staring at the Beast as it prepared its next attack—an attack that wouldn't merely take another limb, but both of their lives in a single, merciless strike.
Turning back to Rowan, Sullivan forced a faint smile. "And your mother will be without a son. I hope she has someone to take care of her after you're gone."
Rowan's expression broke. Silent tears slipped down his dirt-streaked face. His mother, elderly and frail, had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis years prior—an illness destined to take away her movement, her independence. Chemotherapy had only stolen more from her. If Rowan had held one wish close to his heart, it was that his mother might one day be free of these afflictions—the quiet, cruel curses of the world.
As the Beast's attack began to descend, the two Monarchs looked at each other without speaking. Then, Sullivan tilted his head back, exhaling a tired, defeated breath.
"I guess… I really am... just a man." with a final breath shared between them, they closed their eyes, lifted their faces toward the oncoming blow, and embraced the death rushing to meet them.
That was the day the Basilisk and Cyclops Monarchs met their ends. But it was more than the death of two men; it was the death of safety, the death of sons, the death of faith, and the death of peace across the world. An unseen calamity had been unleashed.
---
Beasts of Ruin—grotesque constructs forged from countless merged souls, abominations of regret and lingering spirits—first appeared in the United States in the mid-1800s. Twenty years later, the first Beast Masters emerged, becoming the earliest line of supernatural defense. After them came the Monarchs—far stronger, the next evolutionary step. Even the lowest ranked Monarch possessed the destructive capacity to level an entire city, which made it necessary that their power never go unchecked.
Nearly a century after the first Monarchs appeared, the final rung of the supernatural hierarchy revealed itself: the Ministers. Their origins, like those of Beast Masters and Monarchs, remained obscure, but the Ministers were different in nature—mysterious, abstract, and cosmic beings who, for the first time in supernatural history, selected their hosts.
What separated the Ministers from the rest, beyond their mythical or otherworldly creatures, was the sheer magnitude of their power. A newly chosen Minister host could contend with a seasoned Monarch with ease, overwhelming experience through raw, unparalleled force.
Even now, the full extent of a Minister's power—and the power of the beings that chose them—remains unknown. But one truth is universally accepted: each Minister is tied to one of three fundamental pillars of the universe—Time, Gravity, and Reality. Accordingly, the only families in the world with a guaranteed, generation-after-generation selection rate for these entities are the Sierra Family, the Sora Family, and the Uzochi Family.
---
November 16th, 2032.
A dirty boy sat quietly on the cold Washington D.C. sidewalk. Beside him lay a towel spread out beneath several strange devices.
His name was Maxwell Norris Lemuel.
A passerby walked by the boy, and Max immediately called out to him.
"Sir! May I interest you in some advanced phones? They'll be worth your while…" His voice trailed off as the man continued forward without even acknowledging him.
Another person approached, and again the boy tried. "Sir! I sell the best quantum computers in America! Just buy one and get the other free!" He gestured eagerly toward a small, coin-shaped device displayed on the towel beside him, yet the man kept walking, not sparing him so much as a glance.
With every person who passed him, Max tried—tirelessly, almost desperately—to get someone, anyone, to buy one of his creations. But all his effort amounted to nothing.
As night fell and the crowds thinned, the boy finally gathered his belongings, placing each device carefully into a large purple sack before slipping quietly into a nearby alleyway.
He crawled into a large cardboard box he had reinforced himself—three flaps screwed to the brick wall behind it, three more fixed to the concrete beneath—its roof a single piece of plywood weighted down to keep out the wind. Inside, he placed his sack in front of a worn chair cushion, curled into a tight ball atop it, and rested his head against the makeshift pillow. Slowly, his eyes drifted closed as he wondered how he would survive the next day.
By the time the sun rose, Max was already awake, setting up his tiny sidewalk shop once more. Another morning, another round of products no one seemed willing to buy. As he attempted to pitch one of his devices to a man passing by, he noticed someone else emerging from the alleyway—a figure so tall he seemed to blot out part of the sky. His frame was broad, built like a fortress, a mountain of a man.
A ripple of nervousness passed through Max. Strangely, he hoped the man would come his way—and, as if fate were toying with him, the man did.
The stranger knelt beside him and picked up one of Max's Neural Electronic Smartphones.
"Mister, I wouldn't—" Max began, but it was already too late.
The man inspected the device with the sharp, practiced eye of someone who had handled advanced technology before—someone who judged quality the same way Max himself did. He examined the phone not like a casual customer, but like a peer.
"You've just bonded with that phone," Max said matter-of-factly, pulling the man's attention back to him.
The man nodded absently, then froze as the meaning settled in. He snapped his gaze back to the boy.
"Excuse me—what?"
"You formed a connection with it," Max repeated patiently. "Once someone touches it, the device links itself to the brain's neural pathways. It becomes an extension of your body—pretty much like another limb." His voice was simple, almost clinical, but the concept itself was extraordinary.
Alma blinked, genuinely impressed. "Did you make all of this yourself?"
Max nodded and lifted a small cardboard sign that read: Phone – $250.
"I'm sorry, sir," he added timidly, "but you'll have to pay for that one. I can't resell it now. Once it bonds to someone, it only resets when that person dies. Nobody else can use it."
Alma stared at him, astonished—not only by the device's capabilities, but by the absurdly low price for something so advanced.
He pulled out his wallet and handed Max three one-hundred-dollar bills.
Max's eyes widened. He immediately tried to return one. "I only need fifty more, sir—no tax. This is way too much."
But Alma gently pushed his hand back. "No. Keep the extra. Consider it a thank-you. What you've created here is exceptional."
As Alma stood, the coin he'd picked up earlier still appeared perfectly ordinary, revealing nothing unusual—at least not yet.
Max looked up at him, overwhelmed by awe, relief, and a joy so sharp it almost hurt. Someone had finally purchased his work—and praised him for it.
"Thank you, sir. Really… thank you."
Alma offered him a warm nod and walked away, while Max immediately resumed calling out to passersby, heart lighter than it had been in months.
As he worked, he couldn't help thinking about the tall man. A swirl of anxious thoughts circled in his head: Was the device good enough to be worth that much money? Who was that man? And… I can finally eat today.
Hours passed with no additional sales. At last, he packed up his little shop and placed each invention back into the purple sack. He stored everything carefully inside his box and headed into a nearby grocery store, selecting foods that were both nutritious and filling.
When he finished shopping, he hurried back to the alleyway, slipped into his box, and organized his supplies. He had bought a small cooler with two bags of ice for perishables, plus a handful of fresh vegetables.
Max prepared a quick meal and began to eat with an enthusiasm he hadn't felt in days. His eyes lit up, and a satisfied hum escaped him.
"Delicious!" he exclaimed, savoring the first real food he had tasted in a week.
After finishing his meal, he pulled out an old notebook and a single dull pencil, then began writing.
"Day 435: my first success! A tall man inspected my gadgets and actually liked them! He even paid more than what I was selling them for!" he thought to himself as he scribbled the words in messy handwriting.
"Each day gets harder and harder. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. Maybe I should just let nature run its course and die. But now… now I can't. I just made bank! Thanks to that guy. I wonder if he lives here or if he's just visiting family or something. I miss my parents. Why did they have to die?" Max wrote, tears splashing onto the page halfway through the sentence.
The memories returned all at once—violent, cold, unrelenting. The gruesome deaths of the two kindest people he had ever known, witnessed on March 11th, 2031. A date Max would never, and could never, forget.
---
November 15th, 2032, 10 AM.
"So you don't want to go back to North Carolina?" Jasmine asked, giving Alma a confused look.
"Well… it's a mix of two things," Alma said. "Either my house won't be there—and the graves I dug will be gone—or my house will be there, meaning all of this is somehow connected to my Earth. And that thought alone… terrifies me."
Jasmine understood. If she were in his position, the idea of returning home after everything he'd been through would be enough to keep her away too. Still, if it mattered so much—if the truth pulled at him this strongly—why hadn't he gone?
"I get what you're saying," Jasmine said, "but I don't get why you haven't gone yet. Alma, you're fast. You could travel there, see what's waiting for you, and be back before I even wake up."
"Because," Alma said, his voice trembling, "I'm nervous. Or… cautious. Yes, the answers are in North Carolina. But I'm scared of what I'll find. Only God knows what's waiting, and I know I'm just… not ready."
He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting before locking onto hers again.
"Sure, it's something I desperately want to know—something that's been a priority over anything else. But for now, I'm staying. I think I've pushed myself too far emotionally and mentally. I haven't given myself the time to really heal, even if I feel fine… and even though I want the truth."
He swallowed hard.
"I don't know how I'll react. I don't know if the me who goes there is the same one who comes back. I don't even know if I really want to know what's waiting for me." He inhaled deeply and whispered, almost to himself, "I guess… I'm afraid."
Jasmine froze, tears beginning to swell in her eyes, unable to find any comforting words. All she could do was rub Alma's arms gently, offering what little warmth and love she could in the middle of his cold, private fear.
Alma had told her everything. About J.I.B.R.I.L., about his battle with The General, about the death of The Founder and his own unsettling numbness at the time, his special eyes, the stories of Spear and Shield, of Mirage and Gale and now Echo—and, finally, the terrifying truth of the Endless Labyrinth. He told her about his parents' deaths, about Jack and his parents, and everything that had led him to Washington.
It took well over three hours for him to recount his past, but when he finished, Jasmine could do nothing but cry. She had never known that such a kind, warm, and joyful man had lived a life filled with such darkness and pain. The fact that he could still smile—still find a reason to be happy—was something she struggled to comprehend.
In every sense, Jasmine understood that Alma had endured far more suffering than she had, and yet here she was—hidden away from the world, drained of faith, hope, and compassion, reduced to a tightly compressed knot of doubt and anguish by the things she had lived through.
She wasn't dismissing her own trauma; she knew her pain was real. But she also realized, perhaps for the first time, that choosing to see the world not just for what it was, but for what it could be—choosing to see people for their potential rather than their flaws—was ultimately a better path, one she could choose if she wanted to.
A choice to look toward the future, instead of being trapped inside the present.
And although Alma had never spoken any of these words aloud, he embodied them completely.
He was a symbol of change.
Jasmine clung to him, burying her face into his chest as quiet sobs shook her shoulders. The two of them had survived trials that would have broken so many others, endured burdens that would have crushed most people. Yet only one of them had somehow found it within himself to forgive—everything, and everyone.
"I can't believe you went through that…" Jasmine whispered through a trembling voice. "To think that you're still able to find joy is… it's worthy of admiration."
Alma nodded gently and held her closer. "I don't know everything you went through," he said softly, "but I know that the scared girl I found in that alleyway had lived through Hell. And now look at you. You've grown. You've surpassed everything that once held you down." He rested a reassuring hand on her head.
"You're brave, you're mature, and incredibly confident. I wish I had those things when I was your age. Honestly," he added with a faint, wistful smile, "I don't think I could've handled what you did at your age. And… I hope you don't take offense to the things you've endured."
Jasmine blinked and raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"I live by a certain quote," Alma said. "Though only recently have I truly understood how it shaped me. 'What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.' I've believed that all my life, and I'm its greatest proof. And so are you."
He brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"Everything you've done—whether it came from good intentions, bad ones, whether it was forced on you or happened out of nowhere—every mistake, every success… all of it has made you better. Stronger. New. I hope you understand that. And I hope you keep my words close to your heart, because that's where mine come from… straight to you."
Jasmine lifted her eyes to him, a small, grateful smile forming through her tears. And for the first time in her life, she truly understood what love meant—not merely the ability to give it, but the ability to receive it, to feel it blossom within her, and to cherish it as something precious. In this moment, Jasmine genuinely believed that someone could carry change into the world—someone capable of offering hope, compassion, and a reason to keep going.
After several moments of quiet, comfortable stillness, Jasmine gently pulled back from Alma and lifted her gaze to his.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling. "For everything you've done for me. For saving me in that alley… for taking me in as your daughter… for providing for me, for protecting me, for trusting me enough to tell me your entire life. I can't possibly express how cherished—how loved—I really feel."
The tears that gathered spilled freely down her cheeks.
"I love you. Truly. I love you more than anything," she said, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.
Alma smiled softly. What he expected to be a heavy, heartbreaking conversation had transformed into something warm and delicate—an emotion so gentle and sincere that he knew he would never forget it, nor the moment that birthed it.
"Thank you," he murmured. "I love you, and I'm proud to be your father. No matter what."
They embraced once more, a long, steadying hug, before separating. Jasmine settled beside him, and Alma leaned back with a quiet, satisfied smile.
"So… your abilities," Jasmine began, breaking the silence that lingered between them. "'The Greatest' series and 'The False' series—do you know where they came from?"
Alma shook his head slowly. "I don't have a solid answer—just a theory. You remember the HatMan I told you about? I think he's responsible for them." His voice tightened slightly, as if speaking the name alone was an act of defiance.
Jasmine nodded thoughtfully. "Do you think he gave you the Endless Labyrinth, too?"
The question sent a faint tremor through Alma's body. "Yes. Whatever that thing did to me… it manifested grave powers."
"You said you didn't feel anything before, during, or after it activated, right?" Jasmine asked. "Then… what if the Endless Labyrinth didn't come from the HatMan at all? What if it manifested because of your despair in that moment?"
Alma turned to her, contemplation shadowing his features. "That could be a possibility," he admitted. "I felt nothing then—no fear, no sadness, no hate, no love. It's very possible that despair is what caused it to form…" His voice drifted off.
"What exactly are you suggesting?" he asked quietly.
"Maybe the HatMan only gave you the Evil Eyes," Jasmine said. "And everything after that—everything—you created yourself. Shield formed because they couldn't hit you. Spear formed because Judith, while able to strike you, couldn't inflict meaningful harm. Mirage came from a false vision—something you wanted so badly to believe. Gale was born from your firsthand experience with injustice. And Echo… Echo came from your own self-reflection, from questioning why you are the way you are."
She continued, "And because nothing else has formed in 'The Greatest' series since then, it feels like the Endless Labyrinth is the pinnacle. Not just the peak, but the final step."
"So you're saying these abilities… are my own?" Alma asked quietly.
"Sort of," Jasmine said, pausing. "What I'm saying is that you don't need to tie everything back to the HatMan. The abilities you have—they're yours. Not his. That includes the Endless Labyrinth."
She watched him carefully, studying his expression.
Alma remained silent for several seconds. He understood what she meant—he had thought the same thing himself—but he despised the idea of being connected to the HatMan, even indirectly.
"I don't know which is worse," he said finally. "Knowing the HatMan is behind all of this… or knowing my abilities and my eyes come from me. From my soul. I grew up in a world with no magic, no powers, no beneficial mutations." He exhaled softly, staring down at his hands.
"I was shocked when I learned the people who killed my parents had powers. Terrified, even. Terrified when that ship appeared above my house. Terrified of myself, of the people around me—even normal people. Anyone could have been a threat to me. And I was a threat to everyone else. Their powers came from chemicals. But I was never exposed to any of that, and my powers were… something else entirely. I've killed so many people. Hurt even more. What have I given back in return? What have I sacrificed? What good is there to see except destruction?" Alma lifted his eyes to meet hers.
"What am I?"
Jasmine placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "A hero," she said simply.
His eyes widened.
"I don't care if the whole world stands against you. I don't care if you stand against yourself. You are a hero. A guardian. A mentor. A teacher. Someone to look up to. It doesn't matter if some people only focus on the worst parts. There is always good among the bad—fresh among the rotten."
Her grip tightened.
"It's easier to destroy than to create—you know that better than anyone. But you can use what you have for good. Weapons aren't made only to harm; they're made to protect. And you're the greatest weapon because you protect. Don't punish yourself. Don't confine yourself to the scribbled lines when you're capable of filling an entire page."
Alma stared at her, wide-eyed. The maturity and wisdom she displayed stunned him. She truly had grown since the day they met. A soft smile touched his lips before he pulled her into a gentle embrace.
"Thank you, honey. Your words bring me a wonderful joy."
Jasmine smiled. "Don't mention it. It's something you needed to hear—and it sounds like you've needed it for a long time."
Alma chuckled. "Yeah… I really did, huh?"
They separated but remained close, breathing in the quiet of the moment. After a few seconds of peaceful silence, Alma spoke again.
"So… you wanna get pizza?"
"Yeah," Jasmine said with a small laugh. "I could use a bite."
And with that quiet conversation concluded, Alma grabbed his jacket and the apartment key. With Jasmine's hand nestled comfortably in his own, the two stepped out into the hallway and left the apartment behind.
Outside, they walked side by side along the evening sidewalk. They passed several blocks, weaving through the familiar streets of the city until they arrived at a small, warmly lit pizza restaurant. Alma pulled the door open for Jasmine, who stepped inside and held it politely for him in return, the exchange quiet but affectionate.
They joined the short line, scanning the oversized menu board above the counter as they debated what to order. Alma drifted into thoughtful indecision—perhaps the stuffed-crust pepperoni, maybe some wings—when something shifted in his peripheral vision. His attention snapped sideways.
Sitting alone at a corner table was the kid he'd bought the advanced phone from—the boy named Maxwell.
Alma gently nudged Jasmine's shoulder. She looked up at him curiously, and he nodded toward the table behind her. She turned, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of a boy slightly older than herself, dressed in dirty, worn-out clothing, even his skin smudged with grit. He sat hunched over a large pizza, eating quietly, his expression a mix of exhaustion and sadness.
"Who's that?" she whispered.
Alma leaned close. "That's the kid I bought the phone from."
Jasmine's brow rose sharply. She had expected the man who sold her father such a sophisticated device to be well-kept, clean, maybe even professional. Instead, the reality in front of her left her momentarily stunned by how young—and how neglected—he seemed.
"He looks homeless," she murmured flatly.
"Easy, Jasmine," Alma said gently. "From what I've seen, he doesn't have anywhere to stay. And he's probably running low on the three hundred dollars I gave him."
They moved up in the line, Jasmine still watching the boy out of the corner of her eye. "What are you thinking?" she asked.
Alma exhaled slowly. "Do you want an older brother?"
Jasmine's eyes widened. "Are you serious? That's… that's a huge commitment." Her tone was neutral, neither opposing nor encouraging—simply processing.
"I know," Alma said, stepping forward as the line advanced. "But we're stable. Those bills I gave him barely scratched our savings."
He glanced again at the lonely boy in the corner. "And I can't just let that kid try to survive on his own. I don't think I could live with myself if I did."
Jasmine sighed, though there was a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You know, sometimes your kind nature is really stubborn."
Alma shot her a quiet, toothy grin. "That's what makes me."
They soon ordered their pizza and made their way toward Max's table.
At that moment, Max sat hunched over his meal, muttering frantically under his breath. "Oh no… what am I gonna do?"
Yesterday he had gone overboard with his spending—more groceries than he needed, plus a tent, sleeping bag, and lantern to make the alleyway at least slightly livable. But the real problem was the food. After so many days of starvation and barely surviving on scraps, Max had devoured everything he bought in a single night. Now he had only enough money left for the pizza in front of him.
He should have been fine for two weeks. Instead, he had eaten everything within hours, his body desperate for nourishment. Now he sat staring at the crusts, trying to figure out how he was going to survive.
As he spiraled through panic, two figures suddenly slid into the seats across from him. Max jerked upright, hands rising defensively in front of his face.
"Easy, kid. We're not going to hurt you," Alma said gently.
Max froze at the sound of the voice. Slowly, his hands lowered. Jasmine sat beside Alma, watching him curiously, while Alma offered a kind smile.
"M-mister…?" Max whispered, as if afraid he was seeing an illusion.
"Oh—I never gave you my name, did I?" Alma said, gesturing between them. "This is my daughter, Jasmine," he said, then tapped his own chest, "and I'm Alma Alastor. It's good to see you again."
Jasmine gave a small wave. Max stared, stunned into stillness.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, almost breathless, as though Alma were a ghost materializing in front of him. He had convinced himself that Alma must have been some kind of angel—or a hallucination born from starvation—someone who couldn't possibly exist in his world twice.
But the man was real, sitting across from him, opening a warm box of pizza.
"We just came here to eat," Alma said softly. "Then I saw you sitting alone, looking… well, pretty upset."
"Yeah," Jasmine added without hesitation, "you looked really ragged and hopeless." She offered him a slice of pepperoni. "Here. Cheer up."
Max looked at the slice as though it were dangerous. Still trembling, he accepted it with both hands, holding it delicately as if it might shatter. The moment felt surreal. The voice had told him something like this would happen.
"Are you okay?" Jasmine asked, pulling him out of his daze.
"Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he said quickly, nervousness bleeding into each word. "Just… uh… surprised to see Mr. Alastor, is all."
"Why?" Jasmine asked.
Max froze, panic flickering across his features. Alma gently placed a hand on Jasmine's shoulder, signaling her to ease off.
"You don't have to answer that," Alma said calmly. "Just enjoy your slice."
The three of them ate quietly, an almost awkward silence settling between them. Alma slid more food toward Max—a second slice, then a third, and several wings. Despite having eaten a whole pizza alone, Max devoured everything given to him, his hunger overpowering any embarrassment.
When the box was empty, Alma rose from his seat, tossed it into the trash, and returned. He wiped his fingers with a paper towel and took a sip from his drink before turning to Max again.
"I won't ask much of you," he said firmly, catching Max's attention immediately. "I'll only ask this once. You don't have to accept—and you don't have to decline right away either."
Max blinked, confused.
"I saw your situation yesterday. You were trying so hard to sell your devices to people who didn't care. I was your only customer. And I didn't give you that money just out of gratitude—I gave it to you because I knew you needed it."
Alma paused, meeting the boy's eyes.
"You're in a rough place. So I want to ask you this…"
He took in a deep breath.
"Will you become my son?"
Max's breath hitched. His eyes widened. His heart thundered. Sweat prickled across his forehead. The only thing he could manage was a tiny, bewildered: "Wh-what…?"
Alma nodded gently. The boy stood so quickly it startled Jasmine. He stared at Alma, stunned, overwhelmed.
"I don't… I don't understand," Max said, voice cracking. "Why? Why me? What makes you think I'll be any good to you? What if I take advantage of you, or—or steal, or… or something?"
His panic rose like a plea for Alma to reconsider, to find a reason not to care.
But Alma only shook his head.
"Those are problems," he said softly. "But problems have answers. And we'll face them together."
Max looked up at Alma with eyes that flickered between hope and fear, the kind of gaze that carried too many unspoken questions for someone his age. After finishing their meal, they cleared their table together, the clatter of plates and the low hum of the restaurant forming a quiet backdrop as they stepped out into the cool evening air. Alma held Jasmine's hand gently, Max walking a few steps ahead with small, cautious strides. As they made their way down the sidewalk, Alma retrieved his phone, his thumb hesitating for only a moment before dialing the number to the nearest child services agency and calmly explaining that he wished to begin the process of adopting a child.
When the call ended—with Alma wearing the faintest, relieved smile—they immediately headed toward the adoption center. The staff wasted no time in running extensive background checks on him, combing through records for any trace of criminal involvement or past behavior that could indicate danger to a child. They found nothing. Satisfied with the results, they sent a social worker to inspect Alma's apartment, assessing whether it was safe enough for a child to live in.
The social worker found the apartment not only clean and orderly, but carefully arranged with safety in mind: knives tucked securely out of sight, harmful objects stored high above reach, every room neat and thoughtfully maintained. After half an hour of examination, she returned to report her findings to the court.
Several hours passed. By the time the clock struck eight, Alma had legally adopted Max. The three of them—Alma, Jasmine, and their newest addition—walked home together. Before settling in, Max stopped by the alleyway he had once called home, gathering his few belongings into a worn sack and gently placing them in the cardboard box that had sheltered him for far too long.
When they arrived at the apartment, Max took in the space with wide eyes. He discovered his bed placed directly across from the one Alma and Jasmine shared, and after a moment of quiet awe, he began to unpack.
"Can you look after Max while I'm gone?" Alma asked softly.
"Yeah, sure. Where are you going?" Jasmine replied.
"To the store," he said, already turning toward the door. "Max needs better clothes than what he's got on. Show him where the shower is, please. Thank you."
Once Alma left, Jasmine helped Max unpack the rest of his belongings, pulling out several odd-shaped objects that clinked gently against one another.
"What even is all this stuff?" she asked, unable to hold back her curiosity.
"That is an Electromagnetic Capsule," Max said, pointing to a black, diamond-shaped box. "It holds electricity and can double or triple its stored energy if given enough time."
"And these are the phones my dad bought from you?" Jasmine asked, lifting two sleek devices from the sack.
"Yes," Max said with a small, proud smile. "They're called Neural Electronic Smartphones. They connect directly to your mind, so they can do anything you think—except fly into your hand. They can't do that."
"Wow. This is some pretty advanced stuff. No wonder my dad likes you," she said offhandedly.
The effect on Max was immediate. He froze, eyes widening in disbelief.
"Wait—you mean he actually likes my technology?!" he blurted, grabbing Jasmine by the shoulders.
A strange, unexpected tingle rushed through both of them.
"Uh… yeah? That's kind of obvious," she said, gently prying his hands off.
Max sprang back, then suddenly began hopping around the room, unable to contain the overflowing excitement. His laughter filled the apartment, his joy unfiltered and bright.
Jasmine stared at him as though he'd suddenly sprouted another head. "Are you okay?" she asked, genuinely concerned.
"Okay? I couldn't be better! He not only looked at my inventions—he inspected them… and he liked them!" Max exclaimed, bouncing in place.
"...Oookaaaayyyy," Jasmine muttered.
"Well, anyway—here's the shower. My dad should be back soon, so just take your time and scrub off all that dirt and grime," she said, switching on the small metallic heater on the counter.
Max nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, stepping into the cold but steadily warming space as he shut the door behind him.
An hour later, Alma returned with two stuffed bags in each hand—clothes, towels, shampoo, shoes, everything a growing boy would need. Max had already finished showering fifteen minutes earlier and had been waiting, drying off in the meantime.
"I hope you don't mind that they're not washed yet," Alma said, passing the clothes through the crack of the bathroom door.
"Oh, no worries," Max replied happily. "Getting new clothes at all is already more luxury than I ever expected."
Within moments, he emerged fully dressed, stepping out into the cool air of the apartment. He watched Alma preparing the kitchen table while Jasmine sat sprawled on the couch, playing with her unicorn.
Noticing Max lingering silently, Alma beckoned him over. Max approached, standing quietly beside him.
"It's a little late to make what I originally planned," Alma said, "so I'm fixing meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Would you like some?"
For a moment, Max didn't respond. His head dipped, eyes fixed on the floor. Before Alma could ask what was wrong, Max suddenly wrapped his arms around him, hugging him tightly. Alma froze, then felt a strange, powerful connection bloom—something warm and familiar, the same feeling he experienced whenever he hugged Jasmine.
Alma smiled down at him, gently patting his head. He looked at Jasmine, then back to Max, his hand still smoothing the boy's hair. The realization settled softly within him.
He was building a family.
Max looked up again, his eyes trembling, filled with desperation far too deep for a child to understand alone.
"Please," he whispered, "promise me you'll never let me go. Promise me you'll never do something that will risk your life. Please…" He swallowed thickly. "Father, promise me you'll never die."
Alma's eyes widened, though only slightly. After a breath, he nodded.
"I can only promise you two of those three things," he replied quietly. "No one but The Almighty can escape death."
Max shook his head. "I don't mean literally. Promise me that who you are will never die."
Alma pulled him close again, resting a hand on the back of Max's head.
"I promise," he said firmly. "For as long as I live, the man you know will never die."
Max stepped back, tears clinging to his lashes. He nodded once, then slowly walked toward the bathroom. Before stepping inside, he glanced back at Alma.
"Thank you, father. I promise to make you proud."
The door clicked softly shut.
Alma turned to see Jasmine raising her hands defensively. "Hey, I didn't ask him anything weird. He's the one who scared me. That came out of nowhere."
"I'm not worried about that," Alma said, his voice quiet. "I'm worried about why he said those things. Those eyes… those are the eyes of someone who's lived through something truly tragic. I've seen them before. His words came directly from his heart."
"How can you be so sure?" Jasmine asked. "I'm not trying to be cruel, but tears can be faked."
"Believe me," Alma said, "I know when someone lies. But Jasmine—" he turned toward her "—I hope you're not worried about me favoring Max over you. Because however I treat one of you, I will treat the other the same. Equal affection, or none at all."
"I believe you," Jasmine said. "I don't hate Max, but I don't exactly cherish him either. I sympathize with him. I know what it's like out there. But something doesn't add up. He looks maybe a year or two older than me, yet he makes technology like the phone in your pocket? Seriously?"
"I understand," Alma said, "but he has his reasons. He needs time. Our job is not to pry into his life, but to become part of it—his comfort, his joy, his home. I'll see to it that both of you always have a wall to lean on, a foundation to stand upon, and a sun to feel warmth. This I vow."
A moment later, Max stepped out of the bathroom. "So… what did you say there was to eat?"
---
The three of them—Alma, Jasmine, and Max—sat at the kitchen table, sharing meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and three lightly buttered rolls. Max tasted the food, and a shock of joy spread across his face. He could hardly believe the meal was homemade; it tasted nothing like the frozen dinners he was used to. He wasn't sure if Alma was an incredible cook, or if hunger alone made everything taste divine.
After the meal, Max insisted on washing the dishes. Alma eventually agreed, and Max produced a small, coin-shaped device. He flicked it across the table; it bounced once—and then, in a flash of expanding metal, a robot colored in black and brown rose to its full height.
It gathered every dish, placed them within its chest cavity, and within five seconds had cleaned them to a sparkling shine.
Alma simply stared, mouth open.
Jasmine raised her hands dramatically, as if displaying the results in a commercial.
"So? What do you think?" Max asked eagerly.
"A-a-a—" Alma stammered, unable to form a full word.
"Amazing," he finally breathed. "It's… amazing. Truly spectacular. How did all of that come from something so small?"
Max's face lit up. "Well, if you must know," he began, "this robot—his name's Mike—was created by manipulating the metallic alloys at their molecular level using this device." He pulled out a matte-black revolver missing its cylinder and trigger.
"It just looks like a toy gun," Jasmine said dryly.
"That's the point," Max said. "I didn't want to walk around with a giant piece of high-tech equipment on me. Too risky. Too noticeable. But this—this works. The handle contains devices that stretch and thin atoms, and the barrel is lined with microscopular strips that control whether an object shrinks or grows."
He lifted his right index finger, revealing a small black pad.
"This decides whether something returns to normal size or shrinks back down. Like this."
He tapped Mike with his finger. The robot immediately collapsed inward, folding into a perfect coin-shaped object.
"Ta-da! Impressed?!"
Both Alma and Jasmine were speechless. Alma recovered first.
"Saying I'm impressed doesn't even begin to cover it," he said.
"Yeah," Jasmine added. "Calling it 'good' feels like an insult."
Max beamed, pocketing the coin.
Later, they watched television together. When it was time to get ready for bed, Alma and Jasmine knelt beside their bed to say their prayers, hands clasped and eyes closed. Max looked at them curiously.
"We're saying our nighttime prayers," Jasmine explained.
"What's that?" Max asked.
"We pray to God to watch over us and protect us while we sleep," Alma said.
Max watched for a moment, then quietly mimicked their posture. Together, the three of them prayed. Alma kissed Max gently on the forehead before lying down beside Jasmine. Max settled into his own bed.
"Goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite!" Alma called.
"You neither!" Max and Jasmine chimed back.