Days passed.
Angelo still remembered the pain of the mark — how the inside of that coyote felt in his hand, how his foot crushed that small rabbit. Those moments haunted his dreams.
He didn't go to school; his family wouldn't let him. Eating had become a punishment. Every time he sat down to eat, the images of that day flashed before his eyes. His stomach turned, his throat closed, and the food came back up. He was falling apart.
But his family didn't give up.
People still gathered outside the house every day to see "the boy chosen by God." But James, Olivia, and Alex made them leave — day after day, until the crowds stopped coming. Olivia took Angelo to therapy. Slowly, the weeks passed.
He began to find small rhythms again.
He got up.
Brushed his teeth.
Tied his shoes.
Ate breakfast in silence while Olivia watched him with worried eyes and James tried to smile like things were normal.
And then, one morning, Angelo smiled back.
He started to play with Emma again. His strength was still there — buried deep — but it only came out when he truly needed it.
Months passed. November 20th, 2017.
Angelo turned fifteen. Alex had turned eighteen a few days earlier, and Emma was just over two.
The Walkers gathered to celebrate. Olivia made pancakes. Alex gave him a handmade wooden sword. James ruffled his hair, proud, and handed him his first smartphone. Emma gave him a crayon drawing — a simple picture of him smiling.
Angelo held the drawing for a long time. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he smiled and said, "It's beautiful. Sorry for worrying you all."
Seeing him smile again made everyone cry. They hugged him tightly.
Olivia said, "We'll always be here for you. So don't give up on yourself, okay?"
Angelo wiped his eyes. "Thank you, all. I'm alright now."
When school resumed, Angelo walked through the gates quietly. Head low. Shoulders tense. Palms sweating. He half-expected stares and whispers — after what happened… after the neighbors… after the blood.
But the moment he stepped into class, a voice called out, "Yo! Angelo!"
A chorus followed — loud, familiar. Jokes flew. A paper ball hit him in the head. Someone put him in a playful headlock. He laughed — really laughed — and it felt good. Like he could finally breathe again.
They asked about games, about tests, about life.
"You get that new game yet?"
"Man, I flunked that math quiz so bad."
"You better not be taller than me now!"
And for a fragile moment, he wasn't a miracle or a monster.
Just Angelo.
Peace never lasts.
The next day, in a different class, a student wearing the same dark hoodie as him got into a fight — slammed another kid into a desk, even threw a chair at a teacher. Angelo wasn't even in the room.
But when the teacher came storming through the hall, red-faced and furious, he saw only the hoodie. Only Angelo.
"You! Come here!"
Angelo blinked, confused. "What? I didn't—"
The teacher didn't listen. A hand grabbed his shoulder. A slap cracked across his face. Then another.
His friends shouted, "Hey! It wasn't him!" "You've got the wrong guy!"
But the teacher didn't hear them — or didn't care. Blow after blow.
Angelo didn't cry out. He didn't feel pain. Only something else: a cold, bitter heat crawling beneath his skin. Writhing. Waiting.
He told no one. Not Olivia. Not James. Not Alex. He didn't want to see their faces when he did.
The next day, during break, the same teacher approached him in the corridor. Pale. Sweating. Hands trembling.
"I… I'm sorry," the teacher said, barely meeting his eyes. "It was a mistake. I don't know what came over me."
Angelo looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once. "I accept," he said softly.
But deep down, he couldn't forget.
That evening, school closed early. Students were sent home in a rush. Teachers whispered. Whispers turned to rumors, rumors to headlines.
James turned on the TV.
A body.
The teacher. Dead.
Not just dead — shredded.
The anchor's voice was grim.
"Authorities are calling it an animal attack, but investigators say no animal could have done this."
Nobody told Angelo the details. But he saw the fear in James's eyes. The way Olivia clutched the remote tighter. The way Alex looked smaller than usual.
He didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
He already knew.
The next day, he walked home with three of his closest friends. They talked about dumb things — music, games, which teacher might secretly be an alien.
Then a man stumbled toward them from across the street — ragged, twitchy, reeking of alcohol.
"Hey! You little punks!" he slurred. "You think you're better than me?!"
He grabbed one of Angelo's friends by the collar.
Something in Angelo snapped.
He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted hard until the man cried out and let go. Their eyes met — the man's wide with pain, Angelo's cold and dark like the void.
"People like you," Angelo said quietly, "should just end your lives."
The man froze. "Let go of me, you freak!"
The word freak hit like a slap. Angelo flinched and released him. The man stumbled away, running.
Angelo turned to his friends, bracing for fear or disgust.
But one of them grinned. "That was awesome!"
Another said, "You gotta teach me that wrist thing!"
The third laughed, mimicking him, "'People like you should just end your lives.' Dude, you sounded like an anti-hero!"
Angelo blinked, confused. But part of him was relieved — they didn't push him away.
That night, he turned on the TV.
And there he was.
The same man. His photo on the screen. His body on the pavement.
He'd jumped from a rooftop. No note. No reason.
Angelo's blood ran cold. First the teacher. Now this.
He pressed his hands to his face, trembling.
Did… I killed them?
And then—
A whisper. Low. Ancient. The same voice as before.
"Are you ready?"
Pain exploded through him. Searing. Violent.
He screamed. Collapsed. His family ran to him — Olivia, James, Alex — shouting his name. His skin burned, splitting from within. Vision blurred. Muscles locked.
His hair turned white in jagged streaks, like the color had been burned out of it. His eyes rolled back.
Then—darkness.
He fainted.