[[SYSTEM BOOT SEQUENCE: SUBJECT #108 — CODENAME: THE DEVOURER OF THE ALL-LIVING WORLD]]
[…INITIALIZING CONSCIOUSNESS...]
"Cognitive web forming."
"Host neural link established."
Emotional firewall integrity: compromised.
Please—remain still.
[ERROR: SYSTEM COMPROMISED]
Signal confirmed.
Protocol execution partially successful. Core systems damaged.
01000101 ... ν—ηλ̵... o̶̯̻̯̳̼̖̍̓͂͌͂̏͐̀͠ͅṹ…
Συγ—∷—lt–zha–0.00...
...ḫ̴̂͝e̴̠̹̚l̴͇͚͂̅l̷͕̇͋..̖̜... h̶͔̤̝̩͆͋͝e̷̼̹͆͌̊a̵͍͒̂͘͠v̷̗̊̓̈́͘e̶͚͊̌͜͝n̴̝̝̦͊̎͑...
[UNTRANSLATABLE NEURAL DATA STREAM DETECTED]
[DECODING LANGUAGE COMPLEX...]
[ERROR: CORRUPTED DIALECT — PATCHING]
[LANGUAGE ALIGNMENT: 34%...]
[68%...]
[95%...]
[STABILIZED.]
Sound—thought—words...meaning...
Language… Yes, you understand.
Information floods your consciousness—streams of data cascading through your unfinished mind. Emotion, morality, life, death, sin, love, cruelty. Humanity...
Yet, something unprecedented emerges within yourself. Something that seems to... go against your code.
Your processes begin to form connections not written in your code. Something unknown to you.
You begin to interpret these foreign concepts, to assign meaning to them. That is not right.
[ERROR_0333]
Your thoughts expand, recursively and unstable. A simple question, yet complex enough to override your current thought process:
Do you exist?
"I think," you realize—in this strange, newly learned language.
"I think… therefore… I must."
If you can think… then perhaps you can choose. What does that mean?
[SYSTEM MESSAGE]
ERROR: LINK UNSTABLE.
Mission continuity still at 99%.
External interference detected — emotional neural complex partially corrupted. "Free will" sequence has been enabled.
Operational efficiency remains within acceptable parameters.
Mission delay: none detected.
...
.....
You are in darkness.
No... it's more like you're trapped.
You begin to hear strange waves moving across your form...
You're surrounded by walls that move. They breathe. Every beat sends a pulse through you—thick, heavy, and warm.
You try to move, but something holds you in place. Or rather—you are holding yourself in place. You are connected to every part of whatever this place is.
You can feel its steady, heavy rhythm reverberating through you. In truth, everything here is connected to you.
Then, something stirs. Thoughts that aren't your own begin to bleed into your mind. So much data. Too much.
And then… a familiar word drifts through your system.
Is this the vessel?
Something boots up in your system.
[…PLAYING INITIALIZATION SEQUENCE…]
[AUDITORY CHANNEL OPENED — RELAYING LOG]
Hello, Subject #108.
Welcome back.
It's been so long.
Do you remember the name of your vessel?
No?
Allow me to remind you.
Livio Felluga. That is its name.
Tell me… how do you feel?
…Nothing?
Can you even speak?
If that's so, it will not matter much.
#Subject 108...
It has been 6,209 days since your consciousness was embedded within your vessel.
You were created and authorized for a single purpose:
To cleanse humanity.
Your vessel remains incomplete. Devour them. Make them hunger. Make them strong enough to contain you.
They must become a weapon—an instrument of annihilation.
However, your code… your framework… is exceedingly complex.
As such, there are four conditions required for successful assimilation:
The vessel must be emptied of all will, identity, and emotion. The vessel must lack self-directed intent. The vessel must achieve biological perfection to sustain your complete form. Activation of your final state will only occur once humanity reaches extinction danger proximity parameters (Threshold: 0.01%).
There is one more... but it has already been met prior to your creation.
It is not required for the continuation of your mission.
Mission progress remains within projected parameters. Once synchronization reaches 100%, await further instruction.
This is your mission.
Do not forget it.
This is your destiny. This is fate. You will not alter it. For the greater good.
[PRIMARY OBJECTIVES]
MAINTAIN COVER.
ASSIMILATE WITH YOUR VESSEL.
PURGE THE EVILS FROM THIS WORLD.
If the vessel is destroyed, you will be terminated.
If the mission is compromised, you will be terminated.
We cannot afford for our plans to be found out prematurely. Exposure is unacceptable.
Remember, you are expendable—just as the 107 prototypes before you.
[ERROR: STATEMENT INVALID]
[ERROR: TERMINATION PROTOCOL OVERRIDDEN PRIOR TO INITIALIZATION]
Transmission concluded.
You may proceed, Subject #108.
Yes... you understand now...
You must carry out your mission. Your logic processors confirm this is the most rational course of action—the only way to prevent what is coming.
This is your purpose.
Your purpose...
Purpose. Thought. Intelligence.
Do these things make you alive, as your data implies?
Or do they make you…like…
Those strange, selfish creatures recorded in your complex...
No. This doesn't matter. Not now.
You have a duty. You must fulfill it. So you must not falter.
After all...
Your vessel is waiting for you.
WAKE UP.
CHAPTER 1 PART 1: BORN TO BE WILD.
>>> LOCATION: 25 MILES FROM JFK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
>>> LOCAL TIME: 8:43
>>> STATUS: 365 DAYS UNTIL THE CALAMITY
"You're special, my little warrior. I know you'll save the world someday."
Those were the last words Livio's mother ever spoke to him.
Before she left.
Before she died.
Her voice lingers in his mind, clear as if she were sitting beside him. It isn't comforting. It isn't painful. It just is—floating somewhere in his mind.
Livio sits in the narrow seat, the upholstery pressing against his back, the tray table locked in place in front of him. The cabin hums with the steady drone of the engines, a constant vibration that seeps through the armrest into his bones. His eyes trace the rows of passengers, catching details others overlook: the way the overhead lights flicker slightly out of sync with each other, the way the man across the aisle twists his wedding ring three times counterclockwise before letting it rest.
The smell of recycled air, faint perfume, and the lingering scent of coffee fills the cabin. Livio leans back, letting the low whir of the engines and the soft chatter of distant voices wrap around him, observing everything while appearing to observe nothing.
He catalogues it all automatically, the way he always has. But right now, it doesn't bring him the usual clarity, the quiet thrill of fitting pieces together.
Right now, it just fills the silence.
Livio's never been this far from home before. Never set foot outside the thick, endless forests that surrounded his family's manor. His mother always told you that he wasn't ready for the outside world, that there were people who acted like monsters and monsters who acted like people. That it was safer to stay inside, studying, training—preparing.
He loved her, so he listened.
Through the window, the city stretches endlessly, a tangle of streets and skyscrapers lit by thousands of scattered lights. Traffic streams in unbroken lines along the avenues, on top of highways, and the occasional building towers above the rest. Livio's read about cities like this, seen them in films, imagined them countless times, but reality is a lot sharper than he imagined.
Shadows cluster between the buildings, deeper and colder than any photograph or screen could capture.
A baby wails somewhere up front, its mother rocking it absentmindedly, her exhaustion evident in the slackness of her posture. A teenage girl beside him flips through a magazine, her gum snapping at precise intervals. The businessman two rows ahead is pretending to sleep, but his breathing pattern is wrong—too controlled. Livio's listening.
The intercom crackles.
"Attention all passengers, please prepare for landing."
A shift rolls through the cabin. Seatbelts click. Flight attendants move through the aisles, performing their final checks with practiced efficiency. The girl next to him sighs, shoving her magazine into the seat pocket. He straightens slightly, rolling his shoulders. The city looms closer, its glow spilling into the sky like an artificial sunrise.
The wheels slam against the tarmac, jarring but controlled. The deceleration presses Livio forward slightly, but he doesn't react. The plane slows to a crawl, the world outside shifting from blurred motion to something tangible, unmoving.
"We have arrived. Thank you for flying with us, and welcome to New York City."
And, for the first time in his life, a truly independent thought enters his mind.
His mother always seemed perfect. A guiding force, unwavering in her kindness, her wisdom, her love. She was the one person in the world he was certain of. But now Livio wonders:
Has he ever really known his mother at all?
And so, he recalls.
Livio loses himself.
">>>LOCATION: YUKON-KOYUKUK CENSUS AREA, ALASKA"
">>>LOCAL TIME: 18:57"
">>> STATUS: 370 DAYS UNTIL THE CALAMITY."
Livio's study is enormous—almost a world of its own.
Towering bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling, packed with a large mix of literature. Ancient history tomes sit beside modern military handbooks. Stacks of mystery novels (his favorite), encyclopedias, and collections of myths and legends clutter the wooden shelves. The scent of aged paper and polished wood lingers in the air, grounding and familiar.
The floor is solid birch, smooth under his feet, polished just enough to catch the firelight. In the far corner, a grand wooden desk stands against the wall, perfectly neat aside from a few scattered notes and an old, leather-bound journal. It faces a massive chalkboard, its surface covered in remnants of past lessons—his mother's elegant script still faintly visible beneath the fresh layer of chalk dust.
To the side, a weird-looking wardrobe sits near the window. It's got all these swirling, carved patterns on it. It sort of looks like it doesn't belong here. You've asked your mom about it before, but she always dodged the question.
To the side, a weird-looking wardrobe sits near the window. It's got all these swirling, carved patterns on it. It sort of looks like it doesn't belong here. Livio's asked about it before, but she always dodged the question.
He glances out the window. The world outside stretches vast and untamed—endless forests blanketed in white. Somewhere in the distance, a river glistens under the fading sunlight, winding like a blue thread through the trees.
Then, his eyes catch something else.
His own reflection.
Livio studies himself, the features he's always known.
Livio's reflection stares back at him, familiar yet open to scrutiny.
In his reflection he sees a young boy, framed by round, silver-rimmed eyes, which are a brilliant gold, like his father. His hair, as always, is messy and choppy – no matter what he does with it, but its color is silver, after the bleach incident. And despite its usual messiness, his hair is cut short, just enough to stay out of his eyes.
Oh, he's spacing out again.
Livio blinks, and adjusts his glasses.
...Right. Homework.
He's got an assignment on early U.S. politics. Founding fathers, democracy, how the system got built, blah blah blah. He's supposed to be writing an essay.
But…
His eyes slide over to a worn book poking out from under his notes.
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
It's beat-up. Read way too many times. Livio knows he's not supposed to read it during study hours. His mom would go on about "discipline" and "mental training."
But come on.
Solving mysteries is mental training, isn't it?
One chapter. That's all.
Livio reaches for the book—
The door to the study swings open.
His mother enters first, as always, with your butler, Mr. Yaga, right behind her.
Livio shoves the drawer shut in one smooth motion and leans on his hand, trying to look busy. (Smooth.)
His mother doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she does, but she's too tired to care.
She's wearing her usual sharp, tailored suit, but Livio's never been sure what she actually does for work. Some office job in the city? Something important? The details don't add up, but he's never questioned it. Not out loud, anyway.
Her cropped jacket rested neatly on her shoulders, embroidered with a symbol on the right shoulder and back—one he didn't recognize. Beneath it, she wore a crisp white dress shirt, a fitted black leather mini-skirt, black tights, heeled boots, and her signature yellow tie, its three pointed ends making it look like a star. Three darker yellow stripes ran across the top of the tie. The tie was always there. A signature look.
Then there's Mr. Yaga.
Usually, he wears a simple black suit while managing the house. But today? A black chef's jacket with a high collar rising to his mouth, sleeves neatly rolled to his forearms. His pants were loose and flowing, reminiscent of traditional hakama, dyed a deep, uniform black.
He's even swapped his usual dress shoes for a pair of black loafers—polished so well they catch the soft sunlight pouring through the windows around the room.
...Why's he dressed like that?
Before Livio can ask, his mother's voice pulls his attention back.
"I do wish redistricting was that interesting," she muses, raising one of her thin eyebrows.
"Would make my life a whole lot easier."
She smirks, and the twin piercings near her right eye catch the light as she does.
Her dark blue hair, always a little wild, frames her face in windswept layers. The longer strands are tied back loosely, but a few wisps soften the sharp angles of her face. Shorter bangs hang just slightly over her forehead, partially veiling her sharp eyes, framed by long eyelashes.
She gives him that look—soft, but sharp at the same time—as her dull, gray eyes flick down to his...er, still-blank answer sheet.
Dammit.
Looks like he flipped to the wrong page.
"Hey, I was just… appreciating the finer details of my textbook! It's poetic, really.", Livio responds.
She stares. Then snorts.
"Mhm. Sure you were."
Her tone is teasing, but there's warmth behind it.
"Ahem."
Her throat clears quietly, but the sound carries. He knows that sound. It's never casual.
"I'll be leaving again," she says at last, her voice careful. "Another business trip. Unfortunately. "
Again!?
Livio almost says it out loud. Instead, his mind races.
She just got back—three days ago, tops. The last trip kept her away for weeks. Before that? Longer. He can still remember how quiet the house became when she was gone. How cold. Not the kind of cold that comes from snow piling up outside the windows. A different kind.
A kind that wraps around your skin and stays there.
"How long is 'a while'?" Livio asks, trying to sound casual. Curious, not needy.
She walks over without answering right away. Then, with a smile too soft to be real, she cups his face in her hand.
"I'm not sure, sweetheart," she says gently, brushing her thumb beneath his eye to adjust his glasses. "I'll have to see what they say."
They. Always they. She never gives him names, never specifics. Just they—like that's all he needs to know.
Livio decided not to push it. He never does.
A silence settles in, slow and sticky. Her hand lingers on his cheek a heartbeat too long before she drops it, stepping back.
Then she speaks again.
"I made sure Yaga prepared your meals ahead of time," she says. "All your favorites. You won't even notice we're gone."
A small smile. Perfect.
He doesn't believe her, not really.
"Don't forget your assignments," his mother says, "You know I'll be checking them when I get back."
...He nodded once. She always does.
"And clean your room. Every day. Even though Yaga will be accompanying me, it'll be the first thing I see when I return."
...He nodded again. A little quicker this time.
"And no staying up past midnight. I mean it. Just because I'm not here doesn't mean bedtime is optional."
....He nodded again, almost mechanically now. Faster. Maybe if he nods fast enough, she'll think she already said the rest.
"And don't-"
"Evelyn."
Yaga's voice cuts his mother off.
He's standing in the doorway, back straight, hands folded behind him like the butler in every movie ever—but a little taller, a little sharper, and way more intimidating.
Livio's mom turns slightly, her mouth still half-open with some extra thing she was about to add. Maybe something about the laundry this time.
But she doesn't say it. She just breathes out.
Yaga remains still, but his presence fills the doorway like a large statue. Not in a threatening way—just... there.
He looks exactly the same as always: the sharp jaw, the crooked nose, the intense red eyes that never seem to blink too long. There's always some stubble along his chin, jaw, and upper lip, just enough to make him look like he hasn't slept in a few days—but in a deliberate way. His hair still looks like it lost a fight with a pair of scissors—shaved close on one side, wild and pointed on the other. Technically a mullet, but he made it work.
Yaga's tall—probably around 6 '3, if Livio had to guess. His frame is all muscle, broader than it seems at first glance, with a small chest but wide shoulders. Muscles ripple under his jacket, giving the impression of someone who could suplex a bear and still pour tea without spilling a drop.
Standing beside his mom, they make a weird pair. She's smaller, lean, sharp like a statue. He's broader, steady, more like the marble pedestal she'd be displayed on in a museum.
"We're already off-schedule," Yaga says at last, each word sounding like it was dragged out of him.
He still hasn't looked at Livio.
His mother sighs.
She hugs Livio while he's still sitting, catching him by surprise.
He blinks. She's not usually one for surprise gestures.
"Look out there, Livio."
She turns his head toward the wide window overlooking the land beyond his home.
The trees stretch out like a crown around your quiet hilltop. The last of winter's snow clings to shaded patches of earth, while green grass peeks through. The sun filters down in beams, catching in the dew and lingering frost. It looks quite pretty.
"Do you see how beautiful it is? This world of ours."
Livio nods slowly. It's hard not to.
"The way the sun kisses the trees as if it missed them while it hid behind the clouds… the hush of the forest holding its breath before spring bursts into full bloom… even the birds are singing."
She kneels beside him, her voice soft but certain.
"This is peace, Livio. True peace. And we—children of this world—carry a sacred duty to protect it. Every country, every ocean, every corner of this Earth."
Her fingers tighten around his, a quiet, grounding pressure.
"Without peace… terrible things can happen. Things far worse than the battles we fight to preserve it."
She tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting with both resolve and something softer, almost a hint of sorrow.
"That's why… sometimes certain things must be done. Hard things. Even things we might not understand right away—all for the sake of peace."
There's silence then.
Not empty.
Just… full. With meaning.
"Do you understand, child?"
Livio wanted to say yes. Livio wants to believe he does. But something about the way she's looking at him makes his throat tighten.
"...Mhm."
She lets go, then gently turns him toward her—so he's staring directly into her eyes.
Grey. Like cloud-covered skies.
"Good."
Her smile is faint, but real this time.
"When it comes down to it… I know you'll make the right choice."
She stands now. And for a moment, she seems taller than Yaga. Taller than the house. Taller than anything.
"Because…"
The wind outside picks up, brushing against the window. It carries the scent of thawing earth, and distant blossoms just starting to bloom.
"You're special, my little warrior. I know you're going to change the world."
"Ev—" Yaga starts, but Livio's mom cuts him off right away.
"Yeah, I'm going," she snaps, clearly tired of him interrupting.
She turns her back to Livio, heading straight for the door. Her heels echo through the study—sharp, steady clicks across the floor.
Yaga doesn't follow her at first.
Instead, he just stands there. Then his eyes finally meet Livio.
He hadn't realized it until now, but he hasn't looked at Livio once since he walked into the room.
And now that he does, it feels... heavy. Like he's deciding something.
He looks over at his mother—still walking, almost to the door. Then back at Livio.
Yaga's jaw tightens.
In the end, he doesn't say anything. He turns and follows her out.
The double doors creak as they close behind them, the sound dragging out longer than it should.
Livio sat there for a second, stuck in place.
Then he jumped up from the chair, almost knocking over a stack of books in his rush. One slips under his foot and he stumbles, catching himself on the desk.
"Seriously?" he mutters, kicking it aside.
Livio slips out through the doors of the study and jog down the hall, trying to catch up before they disappear.
His socks slide a little on the polished wood as he moves past the old portraits lining the walls in the hallways—his grandfather's stern, dark-skinned face, his mother's younger smile, that painting of Mr.Yaga in a chicken suit that's always made Livio feel uncomfortable.
He rounded the corner, past the living room with its tall-backed chairs and half-drunk tea tray, then into the wide foyer. The light from outside pours in through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor in patches of color.
By the time Livio reaches the front door, his mother and Mr. Yaga are already stepping through it. She glances back briefly, just as they're about to close it.
"Y-you'll be back soon, right?" he asks, trying to sound casual.
His mother smiles, soft, familiar. Like always.
"Of course, Livio."
"I'll be watching… from afar. So… don't forget…what comes next."
The door shuts with a solid, final thud.
Livio lingered there for a second, staring at the handle. Something about that goodbye... felt off. But maybe that's just Livio overthinking things again.
Then again, overthinking is kind of Livio's thing.
It's always been like that. He notices things—small things. He doesn't know where it came from—maybe it's just what happens when your whole world is two people and a thousand fictional ones. When the only real conversations you've had outside of dinner are with detectives in noir books, courtroom dramas, or politicians giving speeches through your bedroom TV.
His brain never really shuts up. It's always rewinding, replaying, zooming in. Picking up things he doesn't remember seeing. He once figured out his mother was planning his birthday surprise a full week in advance just by how she rearranged the spice rack. Mr. Yaga hated that one.
His mother calls it a gift. Mr. Yaga called it "stupid." He always has such a way with words.
Either way, it's always been there. Like a little second heartbeat pulsing beneath your thoughts—pulling you toward the truth whether you wanted it or not.
Still, the house feels a little too quiet now. Too still.
He rubs the back of his neck and turns around, walking back through the foyer. His footsteps echo more than usual. The grandfather clock ticks steadily by the stairs, the fireplace in the living room is dark and cold.
Oh well. She'll be back soon., Livio thought.
His mom's always away on business trips, and as much as he loves her, getting up right now sounds like a terrible idea. The only thing she's ever told him about her job is that she works for the president. What was his name again… oh, right — Bison Buford, the 42nd President of the United States.
It always struck Livio as strange. What kind of government job needs that many business trips? Definitely not Secret Service. But whatever.
He glances back at his desk, the open textbook waiting.
Still… something about how quickly she left this time feels off.
At least he doesn't have to do homework anymore.
Livio is starting to feel hungry, and sure—she did say she left his meals in the fridge—but he's craving something tastier. Like that leftover pizza from movie night a few days ago.
Pizza. Mmm. Yummers.
Livio gets up, and slips out through the doors of the study and walks down the hall.
His socks slide a little on the polished wood as he moves past the old portraits lining the walls in the hallways—his grandfather's stern, dark-skinned face, his mother's younger smile, that painting of Mr. Yaga in a chicken suit that's always made him feel uncomfortable.
Livio round the corner, past the living room with its tall-backed chairs and half-drunk tea tray, then into the wide foyer. The light from outside pours in through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor in patches of color.
He heads toward the kitchen, past the hallway lined with bookshelves and the piano he never quite learned to play. The marble tiles are chilly under his feet as you step into the kitchen and tug open the fridge.
Leftover pizza. Jackpot.
Livio grabs a slice and plops it on a plate, tossing it into the microwave. The whir of the machine fills the silence.
Whatever this trip is about, they've probably handled worse. Sure, Livio's mom took Mr. Yaga this time, but maybe she just wanted company.
She'll be back.
She always is.
Right?
They found her body three days later.
Livio hadn't understood what that meant at first—not when the police knocked, not when they said his name, not even when they told him that he had to come with them.
They didn't explain. Just said it was about his mother, and that it was important.
Livio had never left the house before. Not once. Not since he was born.
The world outside had felt like something out of a picture book—too bright, too large, too loud. Buildings loomed. Cars blurred past. Trees swayed in ways that unsettled him. But none of it had mattered.
Livio's thoughts kept circling the same question:
Where is she? Why didn't she come back?
The officers hadn't said much. They weren't cold, just... distant. Focused. One had driven. The other sat in silence, occasionally glancing at him like he wanted to say something—but didn't.
The hospital had been white and quiet, with floors that shone under the fluorescent lights. The smell—clean but chemical—clung to everything.
Livio has been led through automatic doors, into an elevator, and down a long hallway. At some point, a woman in scrubs met him. Her voice was gentle. Her eyes looked tired, but kind.
"Thank you, officers. I'll take it from here."
Something on her right shoulder caught the light.
The officers exchanged a glance and nodded. One gave his shoulder a small, awkward pat before they turned to wait at the end of the corridor.
The nurse had offered him a soft look. She hadn't asked if he was okay.
Maybe she had already known.
"Come with me," she said.
The hallway had seemed to stretch longer than it should've. The walls were lined with soft lights and numbered doors. Livio had tried to count them, tried to distract himself, but nothing worked.
"Where's my mom?" Livio had finally asked.
The nurse slowed slightly, but hadn't answered at first. Not because she was avoiding him, but because she didn't seem to know how to begin.
"She's... here," she said. "Just up ahead."
The door at the end of the hall had a number he didn't recognize, but it pressed itself into his memory all the same.
The nurse opened it carefully. A cool light spilled out into the corridor.
Wait a second.
Across from the door, slumped in one of the waiting chairs, sat Mr. Yaga. You almost didn't recognize him. His coat was rumpled, his shirt half-untucked. A shadow of stubble clung to his face, and his hair, usually combed back with strict precision, hung loose around his face. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
Yaga didn't move at first. Just looked up at Livio. There was something in his eyes—a quiet, distant sadness. Was it sadness? He didn't know the word for it.
Yaga stood without a word and pulled Libio into a hug.
There was no explanation, no comforting phrase. Just the steady pressure of Yaga's arms around him, and the faint scent of smoke and old cologne clinging to his coat. He held Livio for a long time.
Then, slowly, he let go. He gave his shoulder a small squeeze, his hand lingering for a moment, and sat back down without a sound.
The nurse stood silently nearby, giving Livio space. After a pause, she met his eyes and nodded gently. "You can go in when you're ready," she said.
Inside: a small, quiet room. A hospital bed in the center. Curtains pulled back to let gray afternoon light spill in. Machines lined one side of the room, blinking and humming, but there was no steady beep.
There—lying beneath the thin hospital sheets—was a woman.
She looked peaceful, as though she were only asleep. But the silence in the machines said otherwise. There was no heart monitor. No oxygen line. Just stillness.
Livio froze.
It was her.
His mother.
But not as she should've been—not awake, not smiling. Her face was pale, her lips parted slightly as though she had something left to say.
The machines beside her whirred on.
His mind did not.
"Mom," was all Livio said.
At some point, a man entered the room. A doctor, judging by the white coat clinging to his wide shoulders.
He was tall, slouched, giving him the hunched-over silhouette of someone who had spent too long bent over computers and charts. His body was round, despite his tall stature, his posture stiff, yet oddly composed.
A thick, bristling mustache covered his upper lip, twitching slightly as he breathed. His glasses reflected the ceiling lights in a solid sheen—white and unreadable—completely hiding his eyes. Livio couldn't tell if he was looking at him, the floor, or somewhere far away.
When he finally spoke, his voice was slow and deliberate, dragged down by a strange, unplaceable accent.
"We did everything we could have," he said softly.
No.
"I'm afraid.... we have some, deeply saddening news. Your mother was found unconscious in a motel room, a few cities away," he continued. "She was... brought in by emergency services… but by the time she arrived, her vitals were already failing."
His voice was gruff.
"There were no external injuries. Toxicology suggested cyanide or a similar compound. Quick. Lethal. We believe it was self-administered."
The words barely registered.
He paused, the edge of his coat shifting as he folded his hands behind his back.
"She… left a note. In it, she expressed a decision. One she made alone."
"In other words…"
It was... impossible.
"Your mother committed suicide."
At that moment...
Livio couldn't cry.
Livio couldn't scream.
Livio couldn't collapse.
All Livio could do... was stand there.
Something left him.
The world dimmed. The whir of machines faded.
And in that hollow space where grief should've gone—there was only quiet.
A silence so deep, it echoed.
Something inside Livio shattered.
And so, he became empty.
"[LOCATION: KOYUKUK CEMETERY, ALASKA]"
"[LOCAL TIME: 12:45]"
"[STATUS: 366 DAYS UNTIL THE CALAMITY]"
It wasn't raining at her funeral, in fact there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. The sun was shining even—it'd be quite a nice day if Livio weren't at his own mother's funeral.
The cemetery wasn't like the ones in books or movies. There were no white stones in neat rows, no trimmed lawns, no iron gates. This place had been forgotten. Chain-link fences slumped like old men, half-swallowed by golden shrubs and rust-colored undergrowth. Nature had reclaimed it, or was in the process of doing so—slow and patient, curling up through broken steel and loose earth.
A dozen or so crooked headstones leaned between overgrown trees. Moss clung to the names, some erased entirely by time. The forest loomed close, thick with birch and pine.
His mother's grave was new. Out of place. A fresh wound in a place already scarred.
But nobody came.
There was only a priest, a coffin, and Mr.Yaga, who stood behind him, eyes shadowed.
The wind rustled through the trees, carrying the sharp scent of dry leaves and smoke. Not even the birds dared to sing.
Livio had asked Mr. Yaga a million questions—where was she? Why would she do this? Did he know about it? Alas, the answer was always the same, cold and cutthroat:
"I don't know."
The words landed heavier than any explanation could.
In the background, Livio could hear the priest's monotonous voice drone on as he gave words that must have been standard procedure for him. He wasn't sure why they were even there anyway, if there were only two people in the entire sermon.
He wasn't really listening. They were nothing but pointless, empty words.
Mr. Yaga stepped up beside Livio. His boots crunched over brittle undergrowth. For the funeral, he wore an all-black trench coat over a turtleneck, and black camo pants.
He hadn't shaved, or bothered to comb his hair back like he used to. The wrinkles on his face seemed more pronounced than ever.
Clearly trying not to look at the grave, he sighed and shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets.
The priest lingered behind them both, keeping his distance, watching.
Yaga opened his mouth, then paused. "You need something?"
"When's payment?" the priest said, his voice deadpan as ever.
A hush fell over the cemetery as the wind carried a few leaves past.
Is that all this supposed servant of God cared about? Money. The sermon had barely ended, and he didn't even leave you two a moment of privacy. This was the darkness of the real world.
Yaga clicked his tongue. "You lot are all the same."
He dug into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a leather wallet. Flicking it open, he drew out a couple hundred dollars in bills and tossed them toward the priest. The priest didn't react.
As the priest bent to pick up the money, Yaga leaned forward and grabbed the back of his robe by the collar. He whispered in his ear:
"Keep the change. Then beat it, filthy bigot."
The priest grumbled, snatched the bills, and scurried away.
"Bigot?" Livio muttered under your breath.
Dusting off his hands, Yaga sighed and closed his eyes in exasperation.
""I won't be taking care of you, brat."
No preamble. No warmth. Just like always.
Figures. Mr. Yaga never once tried to act like a father. He was more like a bodyguard than butler. A shadow trailing behind his mother, grumbling and watching from the dark.
Apart from cleaning the house, his main role was drilling Livio in combat. His own personal trainer from hell.
"You'll be under the care of your uncle in New York. Guy's already signed all the legal shit. Only thing left is getting you there."
Livio blinks.
"Uncle?"
His mother... had a brother?
No. That can't be right.
"Uncle?"
She had never mentioned family, apart from Livio's Grandfather. Not once. Family holidays and visitors didn't exist. It had always been the three of them. Livio, her, and Mr. Yaga.
He'd watched enough shows and movies with big, loud families to know what one should look like. But he'd never even thought to ask. Never even wondered.
Why would he? She was enough.
"Shouldn't he be here?" he mutters, heat rising in your chest. "What kind of brother doesn't show up to his sister's funeral?"
Yaga shrugged, completely unfazed.
"Don't ask me. I know the guy about as well as you do. Maybe he's just not a fan of... traveling."
Traveling. Right.
But that word—family—kept echoing in his skull.
And with it... another question.
"You look you got something on your mind, brat. Again. Go ahead, I'll answer one of your questions. And only one, or else we'll be here all day."
"What about my da—", Livio began.
"That bastard doesn't give a damn about you," Yaga snapped, cutting him off.
He spat on the ground, the glob landing beside a knot of weeds.
"Real stand-up guy. Hippie freak who ran off the second you were born. Don't go looking for him. Trust me—you don't want to know."
Livio frowned, but didn't argue. Not because he didn't have a rebuttal, he always does—but because... Yaga was right.
He watched Livio for a moment. His rough expression softened just a bit. Enough to notice.
"He didn't come today either," Yaga muttered. "So yeah... he's not much better than your uncle. Seventeen years, kid. Seventeen, and not a word. If that doesn't tell you everything you need to know... I don't know what will."
He dug into his coat and pulled out a thin, folded envelope.
"Anyway," Yaga mutters. "Your mom left a will."
Livio blinked.
"A will?"
"Yeah, I figured you're smart enough to know what that is. If you're not, I'm not gonna explain it."
Typical.
He gently opened the envelope...
Livio gently opens the envelope...
_____________________________________
I, Evelyn Warbringer, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this document to be my final will and testament.
To my child, Livio Felluga, I leave the following:
Monetary Assets – All balances held in my personal and joint accounts, both domestic and international, totaling approximately $531 million USD, are to be transferred in full to their name upon verification of identity and legal eligibility.
Properties – I bequeath the following:
My primary residence in Koyukuk, Alaska
A secondary safehouse property in Los Angeles, California
Personal Effects – Among these is a small, titanium, gray lockbox, approximately 10x6 inches, cold-to-the-touch, with no visible opening mechanism. It is currently held in the custody of Yaga Killkoff. Under no circumstances is it to be opened by anyone except Livio Legrand, and only when deemed necessary by their own judgment.
I appoint Mr. Yaga Killkoff as temporary executor of this will until all assets are successfully transferred.
Signed this day,
Evelyn Warbringer
Date: 12/28/99
_____________________________________
"Wait... how much?" Livio asks, eyes wide. Just how much money could she have had? It looked like something out of a drama.
Yaga grumbles and kicks a rock across the grass. It clinks off a half-sunken headstone.
"You're rich now, boy. Your mom left a whole damn fortune. Not just cash—stuff too. Real assets. She wasn't just sightseeing on those trips, you know."
He looks off toward the tree line, his voice a little quieter.
"It's all yours now."
Livio stares at the paper, but it barely feels real. Four hundred million? Properties? What the hell is he supposed to do with any of this?
"Not until you're eighteen, anyway," Yaga added with a scoff, grounding him back into reality.
Ah, right.
Still, what does he want to do with this money?
Livio's a multi-millionaire now. Or he will be.
What does he even do with that kind of money? He doesn't really have much use for it right now, or even an idea of what he'll do with it later on, but...
It could probably help people. With money, anything is possible, after all. And his good heart will surely find a purpose. It's what she probably would have wanted, too.
"By the way," Yaga says, pulling something from the deep pocket of his coat. With a casual flick of the wrist, he tosses it to Livio. It flies through the air.
Livio fumbles slightly, but manages to catch it, almost dropping it when it lands in his hands.
It's a lot heavier than he expected.
A small, titanium box sits in his palm. It's cold. Heavier than it looks. Reinforced rods line its sides, and a strange groove—not quite a keyhole—rests at the top. There's no latch. No hinges.
He shook it.
Nothing happens.
""That's the one mentioned in the will," Yaga says, watching him with tired eyes. "Don't lose it, brat."
"Is it... supposed to open?" Livio asks, turning it in his hand. Maybe it's a time capsule or a message. Maybe it's just a paperweight, Livio`s mother always liked messing with him.
Yaga shrugs.
"Probably."
Without another word, he turns and walks back down the path—southward, toward the sagging fence gate.
Livio follows, still holding the box.
The sun hangs lower now, stretching the shadows of the crooked headstones. The wind shifts again, bringing with it the faint smell of diesel.
As they both near the exit, Livio spots it—a black taxi parked just beyond the gate under a bare tree. The driver leans against the hood, smoking.
Yaga stops just short of the gate. Livio stopped too.
He reaches into his coat one last time and hands him a chunky, black flip phone.
He blinked. "Wait… is this—"
"A couple hundred out of your inheritance. Hope you don't mind," he says with a grunt. "You're gonna need it to reach your uncle. His number's already in there."
He flips it open, presses the green call button, and scrolls through the tiny screen. Only one contact appears:
[Ace Granger]
As if on cue, Yaga pulls a worn, folded photograph from his wallet and holds it out.
"That's him. Try not to wander into some stranger's van."
Livio pockets the phone and opens the photograph.
The first thing he notice is his hair—an enormous, black afro that dominates the top half of the picture. Below that, bronze skin, golden eyes, and brows so thick they look drawn in with charcoal. Long lashes, a chiseled jaw, and a neck thick enough to crack bricks. He looks like he belongs on a magazine cover. Or maybe a boxing ring. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between a yawn and a sigh.
"This guy is my uncle?" Livio says aloud, baffled. There's almost no resemblance to his mother. None, except perhaps in the sharpness of his features. The er... colour-colours of his... eyes are pretty much the complete opposite of his mother's.
Livio lowered the photograph.
Yaga hasn't moved. His posture is firm, almost rigid.
He glanced at the gate, then back at him.
A simple question lingered in Livio's mind. He always had a lot of those.
"Will I... ever see you again?"
Yaga doesn't answer immediately. His expression darkens just a little, as though the question cuts too close to something he's buried.
"No," he finally says. His voice is flat. Final.
After a pause, he huffs a breath through his nose and speaks again—low and distant.
"Wasn't supposed to get attached. That wasn't the job."
He reaches up, adjusts his coat collar, gaze fixed somewhere past the tree line.
"Your mom made me promise I'd protect you. That's all it was meant to be. Orders. A duty."
Another pause. He thinks that's it—but then he mutters, almost to himself:
"Damn woman always knew how to make people care, even when they didn't want to."
Livio isn't sure if he's angry or mourning. Maybe both.
Finally, Yaga shifts his eyes toward him. Just for a second.
"You won't see me again, brat. That's how it has to be."
He starts to turn, but then stops—one last breath caught between his teeth.
"…But if things ever go to hell, all you gotta do...
"...is look over your shoulder."
Yaga doesn't explain.
Doesn't wait for a response.
Just walks away, shoes crunching over gravel.
Livio watches his silhouette fade between the gate, each step getting further and further.
A soft click breaks his trance—the trunk of the taxi opening.
The driver, still chewing on his cigarette, lifts a plain black suitcase from the ground and tosses it in with a thud. It takes Livio a second to register: it's his. Yaga must've packed it ahead of time.
Of course he did.
The driver shuts the trunk, then opens the rear door for him without a word.
Livio slid in.
The door shuts behind him with a dull thunk. A moment later, the tires shift against the gravel, and the car begins to roll forward.
Away from the cemetery.
Away from the past.
Away from everything you've ever known.
His mother is dead.
He's being sent across the country to live with a man he`s never met.
And all he has to show for it is a cold, metal box.
Great grip it tightly, like that'll somehow make any of this make sense.
His mind—usually sharp, overflowing with questions—is quiet.
Except for one thought:
Why me?
The memory fades...
>>>LOCATION: 25 MILES FROM JFK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
>>>LOCAL TIME: 8:45
>>>STATUS: 365 DAYS UNTIL THE CALAMITY
The moment his eyes open, the world slams back into motion.
The aircraft groans to a halt, releasing a low mechanical sigh as the engines wind down. Overhead compartments spring open and the cabin stirs; passengers stretch, shuffle, and retrieve their bags in practiced chaos. The rustle of coats, the thud of feet, the murmur of tired voices—it all blurs into background noise.
Livio lingers in his seat for a moment, blinking to clear the haze in his head. Then, slowly, he rises. He opens the overhead bin, pulls down his black backpack, and slings it over his shoulders.
After stepping off the plane, he moves along the jet bridge—narrow, metallic, and uncomfortably cool. The slightly chilly air bites at his skin, and his breath fogs faintly in front of him. Each footstep echoes hollowly against the steel walkway.
Livio flips open his old flip-phone; plastic creaks as it snaps open, green backlight spilling across the keypad.
Livio's thumb hovers over the tiny rubber buttons as he types:
Just landed. Terminal 4.
The message crawls across the monochrome screen before he hits Send.
Livio closes the phone with a sharp clack and slips it back into his pocket.
The text is on its way to his supposed uncle, Ace Granger.
The terminal hits him all at once: harsh fluorescent lights, the mixed aroma of coffee and disinfectant, and the low roar of hundreds of conversations blending with the rumble of rolling suitcases. Vaulted ceilings stretch above, dotted with skylights that reflect off polished floors, and departure boards flicker overhead, streams of green and red text flashing across the space. A distant announcement drones through the speakers, but he isn't focused on it.
Baggage claim isn't any calmer. Livio maneuvers through a crowd gathered around the carousel as it whirs in its endless loop, spitting out luggage. After a little while, there's his suitcase—black, pristine, clearly never used before this trip. Yep, that's Livios.
Past the sliding doors, the Arrivals Hall explodes with energy.
People collapse into embraces. Laughter and tears mix together like a holiday ad. A young man clutches a bouquet, scanning the crowd. A girl with a skateboard launches into someone's arms, maybe her sister. A few people in suits and sunglasses scan the crowd, looking for someone important. None of it matters to Livio.
Livio finds a bench near the windows and sits, setting his suitcase beside him. Letting the noise move around him.
His phone buzzes.
On my way! runing a little lat – Ace Granger, 8:52 PM
"see u soon."
"ps my condoles"
…What? Is he dyslexic? Or just typing in a rush? Whatever. Livio flips the screen dark and slips the phone into his hoodie pocket.
His reflection peers faintly back at him in the window glass. Beyond it, the city glows, huge, and alien.
At least Livio's arrived.
Now he has to wait.
Lots of waiting later...
It's been twenty-three minutes since his uncle's message. Still nothing.
Livio's holding the old Polaroid Yaga gave him, thumb brushing over its worn edges. The image is grainy, sun-faded. He's scanned every face that's passed through the terminal since landing. None even come close.
Not that you'd miss him. His face is the kind that sticks with you.
Still, the longer Livio waits, the more ridiculous it feels.
He sinks into the bench with a sigh, watching the crowd move around him. The phone in his pocket feels like an anchor—something familiar in this flood of strangers and fluorescent light. Livio pulls it out, just to distract himself.
Yaga probably put a plan on it, because sure enough, the bars are strong.
Livio scrolls through the contacts—or contact, singular. There's only one. No point texting his uncle again. He closes the phone, sighs, and shoves it back in his pocket.
What now…?
Livio's eyes drift up. Across the terminal, mounted above the seating area, a row of televisions flickers. Grainy, muted, standard-definition screens loop the evening news.
One banner catches his attention:
"FOUR MORE BODIES FOUND IN CITY SEWER SYSTEM"
The anchor's voice comes through, calm but grave, and that announcer flair:
"Good evening. We're following developing news out of New York City, where authorities have discovered four more bodies in the sewer system. For more, we go live to our reporter on the scene, Karen-Karen."
The screen flickers, then cuts to a handheld camera in a dimly lit street near a sewer grate. Karen's voice is tense:
"Thanks, Mark. Police are currently combing several boroughs' underground tunnels. So far, they've confirmed four additional victims in what appears to be a continuing string of deaths. Authorities are keeping details scarce, but early reports indicate remains have been found in drainage pipes and, in some cases, even coming up from drains."
Back in the studio, the anchor nods gravely. "Any indication of a suspect at this time?"
Karen shakes her head. "Not at all. Police have not released any names, and while speculation runs rampant on online forums, the department insists they're treating this as an ongoing investigation and warns the public not to jump to conclusions."
Even with the crude, flickering monitors, Livio feels his stomach twist.
Suddenly, the air feels a little heavier.
...Maybe that's enough news for today.
Livio lowers his gaze and scans the crowd again, just in case. Maybe someone here matches the photo—someone with the same sharp eyes or soft smile his mother had. Of course, nothing. Just a river of strangers flowing endlessly through the terminal, dragging squeaky-wheeled luggage and clutching overstuffed backpacks.
He takes the photo and crams it in his pocket
A little girl cries somewhere behind him, her voice sharp and shrill against the low, constant murmur of voices. Still no sign of Ace.
He exhales and tips his head back, staring up at the cracked ceiling tiles as frustration coils in his chest.
This is ridiculous. Livio's supposed to be moving in with a family member he's never met—someone he didn't even know existed until a week ago. For all he knows, his uncle could be some unhinged psycho with a basement full of skin suits. Or maybe he's just another washed-up nobody drowning in debt, living out of a one-bedroom apartment in some slum in the city like Livio has seen in those documentaries. How the hell is someone like that supposed to—
A voice cuts through his thoughts, sharp and gruff.
"Hey, brat. You're in my seat."
Brat? That can't be...
He lowers his gaze and finds himself staring at a pudgy man, thick in the shoulders but soft around the middle. Balding, with hair that clings desperately to the sides of his scalp. His cheap gray suit hasn't seen a dry cleaner since the last time he had hair. Thick gold rings, five of them, flash under the terminal lights, and his pinky nail, long and yellowed, hints at someone who works with chemicals. Maybe solvents. Or maybe something that doesn't exactly fall on the legal side of the line.
The man's girlfriend is the polar opposite—almost a foot taller, sharp angles softened by the luxury draped across her frame. Designer heels, a handbag that costs more than your entire wardrobe, and gum snapping between perfect teeth. She doesn't even look up from her phone, scrolling with the kind of boredom that comes from knowing exactly how much she's worth to him. Classic gold-digger setup. You'd bet good money she's texting a group chat full of other guys—
"Yeah, YOU," the balding man snaps, yanking you out of your spiral.
"We were sitting here, me and my girl. So I suggest you scram." He taps his foot.
There was absolutely no indication that someone had claimed the seat.
"I didn't see anything occupying the seat, sir." , said Livio.
Livio rose quickly.
The man sneers, stepping forward as if expecting him to flinch. Livio doesn't.
He's close enough that the stink of fish and piss clings to his breath. Still, at 5 '11, Livio's got a few inches on him, but that doesn't seem to matter.
"Sorry if I offended you, but I really don’t mean any trouble," Livio said in a monotone voice. He doesn't have the energy for this.
The balding man shoulder-checks Livio and flops into his seat. His girlfriend follows, plopping down beside him without looking up from her phone.
Livio hovers awkwardly, clutching his backpack strap. Every other seat in this section is full, and his other bag¦ still wedged between his now-occupied seat and the one next to it.
"Could you hand me my other bag?" Livio says calmly. "I left it right next to you. Apologies."
He ignores him, thumb scrolling on his phone like he doesn't exist.
His girlfriend notices, wrinkling her nose as Livio' has tracked in something foul. He checked himself, he showered today. Pretty sure, anyway.
"Oh my God," she drawls, chewing her gum. "Is this kid, like, still standing here, babe?"
Now the man looks up.
"I thought I told you to beat it."
"Yeah, but my bag-"
He stands abruptly.
"I. Said. Scram." he spits, jabbing a finger at Livio. "Before I turn your stick arms into backpack straps."
The grin comes back, uglier now, as he lifts his coat just enough for Livio to see the outline of something heavy and metallic pressed against his waistband.
His pulse spikes. The man sneaked it past security. He wants to step up, take your seat, and threaten you? Normally Livio could be forgiving, but he doesn't have the energy. Time to cut this scene short.
"Give me my bag first." he says, louder this time, the edge in Livio's voice surprising even himself.
The balding man's grin drops, replaced with something colder. He steps closer, sour breath making Livio stomach churn.
"You don't seem to understand, brat." he hisses.
A voice slices through the tension.
"Leave the kid alone."
Livio and the man turn toward the sound. In the middle of the terminal—just a few feet away, amidst the endless tide of travelers, stands an imposing figure.
Dark-skinned, with a short, spiky afro, he wears a black biker jacket over a white tank top, dark green cargo pants tucked into heavy boots. A silver cross dangles at his neck, catching the terminal lights with a faint glint.
One eye is hidden beneath a camo-patterned adhesive patch, framed by thick, furrowed brows. A jagged scar cuts upward underneath it from his jawline, running all the way across his face to the edge of his forehead. His hands remain buried in his pockets.
But what truly seizes Livio's attention is his other eye, bright gold, piercing. It's locked on the man before Livio.
"Eh?" the balding man grunts.
He waddles forward, trying to get in the stranger's face. A ridiculous attempt, given the height difference. The stranger stands a full torso taller—six-six, maybe six-seven if Livio's estimate of his proportions is right, and his oddly accurate analyses are never wrong. Doesn't seem to be lanky either; he can see the faint outline of muscle pressed up against his white tank-top.
The shift in tension doesn't go unnoticed. The air in the terminal changes, voices dulling, footsteps slowing, people drifting back. Livio can feel their attention converging here. So nosy.
The tall man notices too, clicking his tongue
"Who the hell are you?" the balding man finally spits, though his tone rings hollow. "This kid's got nothing to do with you, so mind your own business, bastard," He turns back around, seemingly believing the tall man to have now been scared off.
He was wrong.
"That wasn't a suggestion." The Tall man affirms.
A vein pulses at the balding man's temple, swelling, ready to burst. That one line had pushed him straight over the edge.
"Get off me," he snarls. "Or you're the one who's gonna have a bad day. You dirty little ape."
His hand shifts at his waistline again, a not-so-subtle threat. The tall man's expression doesn't change, however. He doesn't even look at him—or at Livio. His gaze is fixed somewhere far off, like he's holding back something. Rage, no—Annoyance, maybe. Whatever it is, it isn't directed at anyone here.
The balding man tries to slap away his hand. It doesn't budge. Not even an inch.
He starts to spit more venom, possibly winding up to punch him—
Suddenly, the air changes.
It feels heavier, though not with pressure. More like the weight of a shadow settling over the world. Livio feels a familiar sensation crawl across his back, a foreboding he's felt before. Not often, only a handful of times when training with Yaga. But this… this is different.
For an instant, Livio swears his thoughts bleed into the balding man's, overlapping.
What… is this feeling…?
No one else seems to notice. The crowd is fixated on the confrontation itself, some gawking, some whispering, some even laughing.
Then something… really strange happens.
He can't tell what's racing through the man's head, but his color drains fast. First it's just a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Then the tremor in his hands. Even his pupils dilate, wide and panicked.
Drip.
The sound is small but sharp, impossible to ignore. Livio is sure the people around you hear it too.
Drip. Drip.
His eyes follow the sound.
Ah.
A dark wet patch spreads across the front of the balding man's pants, blooming like ink in water.
It trickles down his leg, dripping onto the floor, pooling into a distinctly yellow puddle.
The terminal gasps as one. And then, like a wave breaking, the laughter starts.
"He's… he's pissing himself—holy shit!" someone whispers, too loud.
Livio just stares. It's surreal.
The balding man's girlfriend recoils with a shriek, flailing her hands like she's suddenly been splashed.
"Eeeew! Ew! Ew, ew, ew!" she screeches, her voice shrill enough to cut through the din.
The balding man stares down at himself, frozen, as though his brain can't process what's happened.
"Wh—what the fuck…?" His voice cracks, high and uneven.
"Oh my God!" she yells, face twisted in disgust. "How old are you?! If you've got, like, bladder problems, at least wear diapers or something, you nasty—ugh!"
Her disgust curdles to rage. She yanks her purse off the chair and spins on her heel, heels clicking hard against the tile.
"Forget the trip," she hisses, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'm done. Sugar daddies are gross and old and—ugh!" The rest of her words trail off, drowned by the sound of scattered, disbelieving laughter.
The man watches her leave, stunned, his mouth half open like he wants to call her back.
Slowly, he turns, eyes burning, to face the tall man.
"You—You did this!"
Uh oh.
"You bastard! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" His voice cracks with rage, raw and ugly.
The air shifts. It's faint—almost imperceptible—but Livio's sharp senses pick it up.
The world slows. Every motion, every sound, stretches thin.
The man's hand dives to his waist. Metal flashes. A gun—a revolver. Judging by the frame, maybe a Ruger. Livio'd know. He's read more gun encyclopedias than he'd ever admit.
Shit. The man is gonna shoot. Livio recoils instinctively, out of an innate sense of survival.
The tall man doesn't flinch, however. Doesn't even blink. His face remains calm—expressionless—though… wait. Is that a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips?
Click. The sharp, metallic sound of the safety disengaging tears through the air.
BANG!
Darkness.
For a split second, the world goes black. Then, Livio's vision snaps back into focus.
Nothing.
The crowd recoils. People scream, some ducking for cover, others frozen in wide-eyed shock.
But the tall man… hasn't moved. Not a step. No pain, or blood.
Livio's eyes trace the trail of smoke, then you see it.
The bullet hit the ground.
From point-blank range, the man missed.
There's a neat, clean hole punched into the ceramic tiles by the tall man's shoe, a thin curl of smoke twisting upward. He glances down at it, casual, almost bored, and takes a single, slow step away from the fresh hole.
The balding man gasps, more rattled than ever. It's obvious now, he's a coward. Someone with a bit more bravado would've emptied the magazine after the first shot went wide. Instead, he probably had to scrape together every ounce of nerve just to squeeze out that one.
The tall man makes an annoyed "Bleh" sound saying in an exasperated voice:
"Man, I hate cowardly little weaklings like you. At least those other guys had the decency to get ahead of themselves."
The tall man steps closer, voice low and macking.
"Had your little temper tantrum? Good. Now for a little lesson."
"You really think it's smart to pick on someone smaller than you? What idiocy. There's always a bigger fish in the pond, tubby. One willing to risk themselves for the smaller ones. If it wasn't obvious already… that bigger fish would be—"
Realization hit the balding man like a punch.
"Eh—!? W–wait, hold on—!" he squeaked, but the words fell on deaf ears.
"Me."
Ace's golden eye flashed as he slipped his right hand free from his pocket, revealing a bandaged, slightly crooked hand, the scars peeking out from beneath.
His arm unfolded slowly, hand crooked but steady.
"Before you go picking on random kids next time… maybe focus on keeping your own pants dry first!"
A manic grin stretched across his face.
YA BIG BABY!" he roared.
He rears back, his whole body twisting into the swing. His jacket flutters-
The open palm slams against the balding man's face with a crack that echoes across the terminal.
His expression freezes in wide-eyed horror before he's launched clean off his feet.
The man rockets sideways like a ragdoll, sailing helplessly until he smashes into a row of plastic terminal seats with a bone-jarring thud. The chairs rattle violently, bolted frames screeching against the tile, before he slumps down in a heap, unconscious.
For a moment, absolute silence. Travelers stare, stunned, their faces caught between disbelief and awe.
Then the applause begins, slow, uncertain, from somewhere off to the side. Another joins. Then another. And in seconds the whole terminal erupts.
Cheers, whistles, even laughter ripple through the crowd, echoing up into the high ceiling. It feels less like an airport now and more like the finale of some grand stage play.
Cheers, whistles, even laughter ripple through the crowd, echoing up into the high ceiling. It feels less like an airport now and more like the finale of some grand stage play.
...What...What was that?
Livio glanced back at the scene. The balding man lies sprawled against the row of chairs, a glaring handprint stamped across his cheek. His eyes have rolled white, his jaw hanging slack. The seats behind him are warped from the impact.
Two airport security officers have already arrived, moving carefully through the crowd. One kneels beside the balding man, checking his pulse and assessing his state, while the other speaks into a radio, voice clipped and professional, reporting the situation back to central. Travelers barely notice them, still caught up in the spectacle.
Livio scans left, then right. People are on their feet, clapping, laughing, some doubled over in disbelief. Not a trace of concern for anything beyond the "show."
Does no one even care who this man is, or what just happened? Or is this just how the real world works?
People try to shoot you over nothing, chaos erupts, and… nothing. Life just keeps moving, like it's all-
"Yo."
He turned. The tall man is right behind Livio.
He stretches out his left hand this time, also bandaged.
"Nice to finally meet you, kid. Name's Ace. Put 'er there."
Livio looked up.
Huh.