When James came home, his tie already loosened and fatigue lining his face, Angelo met him at the door—eyes wide, voice tight.
"Dad… something happened."
James listened quietly as Angelo spoke, word by word, about the mark, the pain, the healing. He didn't interrupt. Didn't question. Just nodded—once, slowly—then said, "Let me see it."
Angelo turned around and lifted his shirt. James drew in a sharp breath.
"What is it?" Angelo asked, craning his neck. "I can't see anything."
Without a word, James pulled out his phone. A soft click. Then silence as he stared at the photo.
His hand trembled just a little as he turned the screen toward his son.
Angelo looked. And froze.
Burned into his skin was a twisting shape—almost geometric, but not quite. Lines curved in ways they shouldn't, intersecting through a strange center.
"It looks like… an unfinished magic circle," he muttered, eyes fixed on the image.
James didn't speak right away. His jaw tightened. His eyes lingered on the mark longer than necessary.
Then he finally said, quietly, "We'll figure this out. Whatever it is."
But even as he said the words, they didn't sound certain.
Not to Angelo.
Not to himself.
The next morning, James took him to the doctor. They ran tests, asked questions, frowned at charts—but in the end, the answer was always the same.
"He's fine," the doctor said, baffled. "Physically, at least. That mark, though…" He trailed off. "If I believed in that sort of thing, I'd say show it to a priest." He chuckled, but no one else laughed.
James didn't argue.
Later that afternoon, the family visited a nearby church. Olivia clutched her rosary the whole way. The priest listened with great interest, then examined the mark with reverence, like he was looking at holy scripture etched into flesh.
"This is a sign," the priest said, voice filled with conviction. "A miracle. The boy has been chosen by God."
Olivia wept with joy. James nodded slowly, the lines on his face softening with cautious hope. They thanked the priest and offered a donation before heading home.
But Angelo didn't say a word.
He just stared at his hand.
It didn't feel like a miracle.
It felt wrong.
Like reality had bent — just for him.
Not out of compassion, but out of curiosity. Or claim.
That night, sleep never came.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the mark pulse beneath his skin — like a second heartbeat. Like something waiting.
When the house grew quiet, he whispered the memory aloud. The voice. The words.
"I heard something before it happened," he told his brother. "Just before the pain started."
Alex, wide-eyed, sat up in bed. "What did it say?"
"'Wake up.' Right next to my ear. But no one was there."
Alex swallowed hard. "Did you tell anyone else?"
"No. Just you."
Alex nodded, jaw tight. "It's okay. Whatever this is, I'm with you. I'll always keep you safe."
Angelo tried to smile—but couldn't.
The next morning, the house was surrounded.
Word had spread like wildfire. By sunrise, neighbors were standing outside the gate—clutching prayer beads, holding flowers, some even holding up phones like they were waiting for a celebrity to appear. Cars lined the street. Curious faces peered through windows. Whispers filled the air like a low, buzzing swarm.
"Is it true?"
"Did he really heal?"
"Maybe he's one of the chosen."
James stepped outside to speak to a few of them, trying to keep the peace, but it was clear he didn't know what to say. Olivia, on the other hand, clutched a rosary tight to her chest, tearfully thanking people who called it a miracle.
But the boy…
He watched it all from the hallway window, hidden behind the curtain.
He wasn't proud. He wasn't excited.
He felt hunted.
Like something precious had been stripped away and replaced with glass walls—fragile, see-through, inescapable. Their eyes weren't looking at him. They were looking at a story. A myth. A symbol of something they didn't understand.
And they were projecting everything onto it.
He turned away, heart thudding, throat tight. Without a word, he slipped out the back door and into the trees.
The forest was quiet — too quiet.
Branches creaked softly in the breeze. Birds perched high above, watching in unnatural silence. He wandered deeper, trying to clear his mind, trying to breathe.
Then he stumbled upon a brutal sight: a coyote had pinned down a rabbit, its teeth sunk deep into soft fur.
Something stirred in him. Pity. Rage. He shouted and rushed forward, startling the predator. It snarled and turned on him. Angelo backed away, but the beast lunged.
Its teeth tore into his arm. He screamed.
But then — something strange.
The wound healed as fast as it opened, sealing shut in seconds. But the blood was real. It soaked into the earth, proof of the pain.
His heart pounded.
Panicked, he swung his fist.
When it landed, the force was monstrous. His hand punched through flesh like it was nothing — bones shattered, organs ruptured, the coyote dropped dead without a sound.
He stared at his trembling hand, soaked in blood.
Then he ran.
Roots and stones tore at his legs as he fled, breath ragged. He wasn't just running from the forest… but from himself.
And then he stepped on something soft.
A sickening crunch.
He looked down.
The rabbit.
Tiny. Still. Crushed.
Terror gripped him—not just for what he'd seen…
…but for what he was becoming.
He stumbled home, legs shaking, body cold. Blood clung to his clothes, some his own — most not.
He stepped through the back door.
Olivia turned and gasped. For a moment, her knees buckled, but instinct took over. She rushed to him, arms outstretched, eyes wide with panic.
As she reached for him, he flinched away, like her touch would burn.
"Sweetheart?" she whispered. "What happened to you?"
He said nothing.
Just stood there, soaked in blood and silence, staring at the floor.
Then she stepped forward, slowly, and wrapped her arms around him — tight and trembling.
Blood smeared across her blouse, soaking into the fabric. She didn't flinch.
And the dam broke.
He collapsed into her, sobbing — shaking. He told her everything. The forest. The coyote. The rabbit. The healing. The horrifying strength in his body.
Her hands were stained red. Her shirt clung wet to her arms and chest. But she held him like none of it mattered.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't scream.
She just held him tighter.
"It's alright," she whispered into his hair, tears sliding down her cheeks. "I'm here. I'll always be here. No matter what you are or what you become… you're still my son."
She led him gently to the bathroom, helped him undress, guided him into the warm shower. The water ran for a long time, washing away the blood—but not the fear.
When he stepped out, fresh clothes were waiting on the sink.
So was she.
She had changed, but faint smears of red still lingered along her arms, beneath her nails, at the edge of her collar. She hadn't scrubbed herself clean—she'd waited.
He crawled into bed, the weight of it all pressing down like iron. As he lay there, staring at the ceiling, he whispered, "Will you stay?"
She brushed the damp hair from his forehead, then sat beside him.
"For as long as you need."
That night, for the first time in a long time, there were no dreams.
No whispers.
No watchers.
Just silence.
And her hand, gently resting on his.