The morning after the fire dream, the boy didn't wake up to flames or visions. He woke up to his phone alarm buzzing like a dying mosquito and sunlight stabbing him in the eyes like it held a personal grudge.
He groaned, rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep.
Didn't work.
His body felt... wrong. Not in a sick way. Just heavy. Like he'd run a marathon in his sleep, or gotten into a fight with the concept of gravity and lost.
He sat up and blinked at the room around him. It was normal. Boring. White walls. Dark desk. Secondhand keyboard. One cracked mirror. Clothes on the floor. A poster of a band he didn't really like anymore. All perfectly forgettable.
Except him.
He stood up and shuffled to the mirror.
Same face. Kind of.
Brown eyes. Dark, tousled hair that always looked like it belonged in a shampoo ad, whether he tried or not. High cheekbones. Strong jawline. He looked like the guy half the school had a crush on and the other half swore was too perfect to talk to.
The face of someone who should've been a model, maybe even an actor, if he had a bit more confidence and a lot less apocalyptic soul fire pulsing under his skin.
Francisco Lachowski. That was the name that came to mind. He remembered someone mentioning it once. Yeah. He looked like that—handsome in a way that didn't quite match the bags under his eyes or the anxiety hiding just behind his pupils.
He touched his chest.
Still warm.
Still burning.
The lines under his skin weren't glowing now, but he could feel them. A quiet hum, like static in his bones. A promise. Or a warning.
The voice hadn't come back.
Not yet.
He went through the motions—brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, got dressed in a black hoodie and jeans. Nothing fancy. Nothing that screamed reborn mythical god.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like toast and burnt coffee. His mom was already gone. A note sat on the counter. Something about a double shift. Again.
He poured cereal into a chipped bowl, sat at the table, and stared at it without eating.
He didn't know who he was.
That was the part that bothered him the most.
He had a name—legally. Probably. Teachers called him Kai. His mom called him baby sometimes, which was just embarrassing. But it didn't feel like it fit. Like he was wearing someone else's clothes and pretending they were his.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw fire.
Not just flames. Memories.
A battlefield. A mountain. A city split by lightning. A face—a girl's face. And gods. So many gods. Their eyes like knives. Their voices like storms.
He hadn't told anyone.
Who would believe him?
"Hey, Mom, I think I used to be some kind of immortal fire god who pissed off the entire divine world because I gave magic to humans. Pass the orange juice."
Yeah. No.
He checked the time. Late.
He grabbed his bag, stuffed in a notebook, and headed out. The air outside felt thick. Heavy, like it was waiting for something.
New York was alive like it always was—honking cars, barking dogs, the occasional guy shouting at pigeons for some reason. Tall buildings cast long shadows. People walked fast, eyes on their phones or the ground. Nobody noticed him. Nobody ever did.
He didn't see the way the shadows leaned toward him as he walked.
Didn't notice the birds going quiet when he passed.
Didn't hear the wind whisper a name he hadn't remembered yet.
Prometheus.