The world bled in slowly.
Flickers. Static. Shapes without edges.
Felix wasn't standing so much as floating somewhere in a space between spaces. Sounds came first. Metal creaking. Distant wind. The drip of water hitting concrete.
Then light. Harsh. Blue. Flickering.
He saw cars. Or what looked like cars. Crushed and half-sunk into the earth. Twisted metal and collapsed fences. The location shifted with every blink. Sometimes a junkyard, sometimes a burned-out clearing in the woods.
It was like trying to dream through someone else's eyes.
Three girls knelt in the dirt, bound and trembling. Their clothes hung in tatters, streaked with dirt.
He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Just watch. The girls faces seemed familiar. Their fear even more so.
Their shoes were scuffed. Tear tracks cut clean lines through the grime caked on their faces.
Behind them stood a woman cloaked in ragged black, her face veiled in shadows so deep it swallowed all light. Her hands protruded from the sleeves like twisted branches. Long, sharp fingers and skin creased like ancient parchment.
She raised a blade.
It was long and jagged, it's edges humming like a livewire.
The first girl dropped without a sound. Blood welled from the gash across her chest and spilled to the concrete in thick, steaming ribbons.
The second tried to scream. Her mouth opened, but the sound died in her throat. Her eyes went wide—then empty—as she crumpled to the ground.
The third girl flinched, trembling. She didn't run. She couldn't. The blade caught her across the throat. She collapsed sideways, limbs folding beneath her like snapped wings.
The woman stood over them, unmoved. Blood pooled at her feet and began to crawl, snaking outward in deliberate, unnatural patterns.
She raised her arms to the sky and began to chant, voice low and rasping:
"Domine scientiae, qui futura revelas et occulta manifestas, exsiste hoc sanguinis sacrificio. Aperi portam."
A pentagram bloomed beneath them. Massive and etched in red, pulsing with heat.
The air shimmered.
The bodies began to burn.
Not with regular fire, but with cold, searing blue flames, licking up their flesh in elegant spirals.
From the center of the pentagram, something began to rise.
Something ancient and dark.
A beast, but regal in its monstrous terror. A mane of flickering cinders. The smell of sulfur and old paper, its equine skull crowned with twisted horns, obsidian black and rimmed with faint gold. Its body rippled with coils of smoke, half-horse, half-thing, hooves striking the earth with a terrible sound.
Where it stepped, the world warped.
It had two sets of faces, one human, one beast. And its voice was not heard, but felt, like a whisper up the spine.
It looked directly at the cloaked woman.
"You have served me well, Witch."
And then nothing.
CLOVERLEAF POLICE DEPARTMENT
Felix blinked hard. The vision receded like smoke in water.
Tap. Tap. Tap. His fingers drummed on the table incessantly like a bomb ticking down.
Fueled by a cocktail of self-diagnosed ADHD and simmering boredom, the teen stared across the interrogation room at the older blonde woman seated opposite to him.
She looked angry, sharp, and unamused. A short, brown-haired man leaned against the far wall, presumably her partner. Judging by the powdered sugar on his lapel, he'd investigated more donut boxes than crime scenes lately.
The detective coughed into her hand, trying to pull the boy's attention back.
"Three girls disappear in a small town, and we find you snooping around the forest where pieces of their clothing were found."
She let it hang, waiting for a twitch, a flinch. There was none.
"What?" the boy said, raising a brow. "A guy can't go hiking in the woods without being labeled a creep now?"
"You have no ID, no finger print trace, you're not in a database that we can access. By my definition you're a ghost. You don't exist."
"I consider myself a digital minimalist," he said with a yawn. "Besides, I already told you who I was."
Detective Lawley folded her arms. "Your real name. Not the fake one you pulled from your ass."
The boy sighed and raised his hands in defeat, "Fine, fine, I'll tell you my real name," he said.
The two detectives waited intently as he paused deep in thought.
"Fox. Last name Mulder."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You're kidding."
Her partner scribbled dutifully on his notepad. "How do you spell that?"
"Seriously, John?" she snapped, spinning toward him.
"Fox Mulder?"
The boy smiled. "I rest my case."
Realization dawned in slow motion across John's face. Then rage.
"Listen here you little shit!" he snarled, lunging forward and grabbing the kid by the collar, practically lifting him out of the chair.
The boy didn't flinch. He just raised an eyebrow, like he had been through this situation before.
"John!" Detective Lawley barked, already moving.
She wedged herself between them, one hand on John's chest, the other gripping his wrist.
"Let go. Now."
John hesitated, nostrils flaring, fists tight, then dropped the boy with a sharp shove.
"Go cool off. And bring me some coffee before you get a lawsuit thrown at us," she snapped.
He glared at the kid with murder in his eyes, jaw tight as he turned to leave.
"Freakin' clown show," he muttered on his way out. "All this shit for minimum pay and a badge."
"I'll take a Mocha, John!" the boy called out after him.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Lawley exhaled through her nose, adjusted her jacket, and turned back to the boy, who was now casually smoothing out the wrinkles on his collar.
"I swear I'm surrounded by ten-year-olds." she said.
The boy smiled, "So is this the whole bad cop, stupid cop thing? 'Cause you're both nailing it. Ten outta ten." he mocked.
Detective Lawley slapped a small stack of photos onto the table. They fanned out in front of him, grainy, time-stamped, and undeniably damning. In one, he was standing just outside the tree line, hands in his hoodie pocket, watching. In another, he was crouched near a patch of disturbed earth. The last one showed him staring straight at the trail cam like he knew it was there.
She leaned in, voice sharp. "Can you see why this would look suspicious?"
He glanced down at the photos, then back up at her.
"Damn." He blinked slowly. "I really do look suspicious."
She didn't laugh. Didn't smile. Just stared at him with the "cut the bullshit" look in her eyes.
"Three girls. Missing. Possibly dead," she said, her tone flat but heavy. "No leads. No suspects. And the people in this town are ready to riot. They're whispering names, staring each other down in grocery store lines. This place is a spark away from burning down."
He let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair until it creaked.
"If I told you why I was there," he said, "you wouldn't believe me anyway."
"Try me," she shot back. "I've been doing this for ten years. I've heard confessions that would make priests vomit. I've seen things I still wake up in cold sweats from. So go ahead. Hit me with the unbelievable."
He leaned back, fingers tapping out a restless rhythm on the metal table, eyes unreadable.
"I plead the Fifth."
"Cute," she said dryly. "Cute. But this isn't a courtroom, and I'm not here to play games."
He smirked. "Then you're gonna hate the rest of me."
She didn't blink.
He sighed through his nose, then looked down at his fingers which tapped against steel incessantly.
He leaned forward, legs stretched under the table. "Mind if I bum a cigarette?"
"How'd you know I smoke?"
"Your fingers." He tapped his temple. "Discoloration. Habitual grip tension. Subtle lip stain. Classic nicotine tells."
She sighed, pulled out her pack. Marlboro Reds. The box had creases like it had been crushed and re-straightened multiple times.
"Not my brand, but I'll manage." He plucked one from the pack and rolled it between his fingers before slipping it between his lips.
She was about to offer her lighter when, SNAP, a small flame burst from the tip of his thumb. It lit the cigarette cleanly, then vanished without a trace.
She blinked in surprise. "The hell was that?"
He grinned around the cigarette. "No lighter required. Voilà."
She reached across the table, grabbing his hand. His skin was smooth. Too smooth. Cool to the touch.
"Where'd you hide the lighter? They should've stripped you down in processing."
"I told you," he said, smoke blowing from his lips, "you're only seeing half the picture."
She leaned back, arms crossed. "Then fill me in, Picasso."
He shrugged his shoulders, "What do you know about the Bible?" he asked.
She stiffened. "I was raised on it. Sunday school. Southern Baptists. Fire and brimstone."
He took a drag of the cigarette and exhaled slowly, "Do you believe though?" he asked.
She snorted, "In what? God? The Bible? The Devil?" she said.
He laughed, "Isn't it hard to believe in one without the other?" he asked.
"I guess. Maybe at one point in my life I believed. But I lost my faith a while ago, the cons of being front row to a plethora of bad shit." she said.
"What's your point? You think the Devil, did it?" she questioned. He stared at her as he twirled the dwindling cigarette in between his fingers.
He let the smoke curl from his lips.
"I think the Devil's got better things to do. But his interns? They've been really busy lately."
She scoffed, "You can't be serious," she said. "I can't tell if you're joking or not."
He raised his eyebrows, "I've got some bad news for you, lost faith or not evil has always existed in one form or another. You of all people should know that."
"I know evil is very real, but it comes in the form of people that look just like you and I." she countered.
He smiled as if he just heard the funniest joke. "You aren't wrong, Detective Lawley," he said. "But real evil is so much worse than what the human mind could conjure up on its own."
She didn't blink.
"Enough Bible study, kid. Tell me why you were at the crime scene."
He sighed, lifting his hands in mock surrender.
"Fine, fine..."
Detective Lawley was still staring at him in anticipation when his eyes flickered bright red, like coals under a thin layer of ash.
"You're tired," the boy said, voice dropping into something like an enchanting lullaby. It was too calm. Too soothing.
"You've been working too hard. You should rest."
A flicker crossed her brow. Then her shoulders loosened. Her feet shuffled slightly against the floor. A yawn pulled at her jaw like it didn't belong to her.
"I'm not—" she tried.
But her voice softened at the edges. Her words slurred like sleep was creeping through the cracks.
"You've been chasing shadows for days," he went on, stepping closer. "No sleep. Just coffee, cold pizza, and paperwork that never ends. You need to let it go... just for a little while."
Lawley's eyes blinked. Once. Then again. Slower. Longer. Her fingers, which had been curled around the edge of the desk, slipped loose.
"Just... need a sec..." she slurred, eyelids dropping like weights.
In moments, she was out cold. Breathing soft and steady. Arms limp at her sides.
Felix stood and rolled his shoulders, a casual smirk playing at his lips.
"Looks like John should've caffeinated her sooner," he muttered under his breath.
He stepped around the desk, taking a moment to gently lower her slumped figure more comfortably into the chair.
He cast one last glance through the window, eyes scanning the hallway for movement.
Nothing.
With a final look at the sleeping detective, he slipped through the door and into the hallway, fluorescent lights buzzing quietly overhead.
Then he strolled down the corridor like he owned the place, hands deep in his pockets, calm as a breeze.
As he reached the front desk, the officer on duty didn't even bother looking up.
Thumbs flying, the man was locked into his phone screen, eyes narrowed in intense focus.
"Come on... just one more elixir pump," the officer muttered.
The boy paused, glanced over the desk, then leaned in slightly.
"Good luck with that cannon rush," he whispered.
The officer grunted in acknowledgement, too far gone to register anything other than Clash of Clans.
The boy gave a low chuckle and slipped past the desk, the automatic doors hissing open behind him.
THE NEXT MORNING
Morning light sifted through the clouds, dull and hesitant. Shadows crawled along the cracked pavement like they were running late.
A beat-up sedan screeched to a halt in front of the school. Its engine coughed once, like it had asthma, before the passenger door creaked open.
Felix stepped out, hoodie slouched low. He adjusted the strap of his worn backpack and raked a hand through tangled blonde hair.
He paused and leaned back into the car.
"You're a gem," he called, tapping two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute. "Five stars!"
The driver didn't answer. The door slammed shut and the car peeled off with a shriek, tires kicking up dust as it disappeared down the street without another glance.
Felix watched it go.
He turned toward the school.
The building loomed tall and indifferent. "CLOVERLEAF HIGH" was stenciled in chipped paint above the door, clinging to the rusted metal.
Kids swarmed the entrance like bees, darting between each other in a mess of limbs and noise. A group of boys argued over fantasy football by a broken vending machine.
A girl re-applied eyeliner using her phone camera, only to get bumped by a classmate.
A teacher shouted something about tardy slips, lost to the wind.
Others sprinted with breakfast in hand, shoving friends out of the way. Laughter, bickering, a Bluetooth speaker blasting rap music that was only just barely lyrical.
He stood still, taking in the chaos. The noise. The petty dramas. The aching normalcy of it all.
He hadn't had the chance to go to a normal school.
Not yet.
Then he smiled. Wide. Too wide.
"I always wanted to go to school," he said, almost like he meant it.
As he did, his eyes flashed red, brilliant and brief like brake lights in the dark.
No one noticed.
A girl tripped near the front steps, someone cursed at their locker, the bell rang distantly inside. The world kept spinning.
The boy rolled his shoulders, then stepped forward, slipping into the crowd.
He was just another shadow amongst the living.