The sun was already setting when Lucas went down to José's basement.
The air was heavy, thick with the smell of old dust, damp wood, and oil.
He shut the door behind him and slid the bolts one by one until he was sure no gap remained. He couldn't risk any monster hearing or smelling him.
"Hang in there, Lucas… just for tonight," he muttered as he dragged an old metal shelf to reinforce the entrance.
The basement was nearly pitch black. He turned on the flashlight and covered the bulb with a cloth so the light wouldn't leak through the cracks. Then he rummaged through some boxes until he found an old mattress, a blanket, and a couple of sheets.
He shook them out, filling the air with dust, and made himself a small corner to sleep.
The silence was so dense he could hear his own breathing.
Outside, the world was sinking into darkness.
He lit a candle and made himself a sandwich with the last of the pantry supplies: stale bread, dry ham, and a slice of yellowed cheese. He ate slowly, silently, as if chewing too loudly might draw something near.
When he finished, he leaned back against the wall and sighed. His body needed to move, to burn off the tension of the day.
"Let's see what you've got, Lucas," he whispered, setting the flashlight on a box.
He started doing push-ups.
One, two, ten, twenty…
By fifty, he expected the usual burn, the shortness of breath.
But nothing.
His body stayed firm, light, almost electric.
He kept going. Sixty, eighty, a hundred.
Still nothing.
He stood, heart pounding but not from fatigue.
"No way…" he whispered, staring at his hands. "Before all this, I'd be dead tired by now."
He decided to push further.
A hundred squats, then jumps, then more push-ups.
Still nothing. His body refused to tire.
He froze for a moment, then laughed nervously.
"So this is what it feels like… to be truly alive?"
His eyes fell on the empty coffee mug sitting on the worktable.
"All right…" he murmured, holding out his hand like in the comics he used to read. "Come on. Move."
Nothing.
He tried again, shutting his eyes tightly.
Still nothing.
"Okay… maybe laser eyes," he said, pointing his gaze at the cup.
He snapped his eyes open.
Silence.
Then he took a deep breath and blew with all his might, imagining fire.
All he managed was to lift a bit of dust.
He laughed. "Nice going, Lucas. The body of an athlete, the brain of an idiot." He dropped onto the mattress.
Staring at the ceiling beams faintly visible in the dark, his breathing slowed.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered the anime, the manga, the stories that had kept him company when he was alone.
If those characters could master their power, then so could he.
He sat cross-legged, hands resting on his knees.
Silence filled the basement.
The air was cold, but warmth began to rise from within, like something moving inside him.
"Come on…" he whispered. "If there's something in me… I want to feel it."
And there, underground, as night fell and the dwellers began to stir in the streets above, Lucas closed his eyes and searched within himself for whatever had awakened.
---
He'd been sitting like that for more than half an hour.
His legs were numb, tingling, but his mind was still.
The silence of the basement wrapped around him, broken only by the soft hum of his breathing.
Then he felt it.
A pulse.
Slow, deep, steady.
Not his heart—or not entirely. Something else beating inside him.
Each vibration rippled through his body in warm waves, spreading from his chest to his limbs.
Lucas opened his eyes for a second, startled, then shut them again.
He focused on the rhythm.
It was calm… almost serene.
He tried something new.
He tried to speed it up, to control it, to make it obey his will—like blinking or moving a hand.
To his shock, it did.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
And faster.
Until—suddenly—it hit something.
An invisible wall that wouldn't let it go any further.
Lucas clenched his jaw.
He could feel the wall inside him, pressing, resisting.
He had to break it.
Hours passed. Four, maybe more.
His body stayed motionless, breathing steady, but his mind was a storm.
He felt no hunger, no sleep, no fatigue.
He was fully absorbed, lost in the effort to break through.
And then it happened.
A muffled sound ran through his body, like bones cracking from within—but there was no pain.
It was a rupture… but not a physical one.
The wall had shattered.
The pulse exploded.
A fiery, living energy surged through him, head to toe, humming violently.
Lucas's eyes snapped open as he gasped for air.
His hands trembled.
From his skin rose a faint white vapor, curling upward as if he were boiling from the inside.
It wasn't sweat, nor heat. It was something else entirely.
"What… is this?" he whispered, watching the vapor spill from every pore, wrapping around him like a mist.
The air grew heavy, electric.
He could feel the energy draining him, weakening him second by second.
Exhaustion hit hard.
"This isn't good… I need to stop it."
He closed his eyes again and focused on the feeling of the vapor escaping.
He pictured it like a pressure valve being sealed tight, the excess held inside.
Slowly, the flow began to fade.
The vapor stopped—but didn't vanish.
It changed.
A thin, translucent layer began forming over his skin.
It glowed faintly in the flashlight's dim light, like a second skin made of condensed air.
Lucas stared at it, amazed, his breathing steadying.
The basement was silent again.
Only him—and that invisible energy wrapping him completely.
At first, it drained him, pulling at his strength. But soon, the fatigue lifted.
What came next was different.
His senses sharpened.
He could feel the damp air brushing his skin, the light tickle of sweat running down his neck, the pulse pounding in his temples.
He could hear the wind rattling the basement window, the creak of wood, the drip of water from the pipes.
But there was more.
Something new.
Something strange.
It was as if his awareness stretched beyond his body.
Then—he felt it.
A presence.
A tiny life form, maybe twenty meters away.
He couldn't see it, but he sensed it.
It was like a small flame in the dark—faint but alive—darting back and forth.
"What… is that?" he whispered.
The sensation was impossible for any human being, yet he felt it clearly, as if his mind had connected to something unseen.
"A rat?" he muttered, trying to convince himself.
But deep down, he knew it wasn't.
It wasn't just physical. It was deeper than that.
"So my power is… being a radar? A human sensor?" he said with a short laugh.
He shook his head.
"No… it's more than that. I can feel it. There's more to this."
He opened his eyes.
The flashlight flickered weakly on a box.
The clock read 1:00 a.m.
He sighed.
"Later. I'll figure it out later," he said softly. "I need to rest for the trip to Washington."
He turned off the flashlight.
Darkness filled the room again, and the translucent layer over his skin slowly faded until it vanished.
The last sound he heard before drifting off was the wind tapping against the window.
And beyond that… the faint flicker of that little life still moving in the distance.
---
Dawn came colder than before.
Lucas opened his eyes, stretched his arms, and let out a long breath.
The basement was still silent, but the fear was gone.
All that remained was a calm determination urging him forward.
"It's time," he murmured.
He turned off the flashlight, stood, and began to prepare.
Winter had begun, and the air slipping through the cracks was icy.
He searched through José's belongings until he found a pair of thick denim pants—almost new—perfect for the cold.
He also found a long-sleeved thermal shirt and a winter jacket with a clean lining.
He dressed quickly, tightening every zipper and cuff.
Then he went to José's room.
He knew his friend well—a hunting enthusiast.
In one corner leaned his hunting bow, next to a quiver of perfectly sharpened arrows and a pair of dusty binoculars.
Lucas smiled.
"Always ready, huh, fatty?" he whispered, remembering how José used to brag about his gear.
Then he saw it—the katana.
Hanging on the wall inside a wooden display case.
José had once told him proudly about it: a Damascus steel katana, forged with skill and precision by a craftsman he admired.
Lucas opened the case carefully and held the sword.
It had perfect weight, balanced, cool to the touch.
The metal caught the light of dawn in a trembling reflection.
"I'll honor you now, brother," he said softly, strapping it across his back.
He found a military-style camouflage backpack in the closet.
He packed a sleeping bag, a few cans of food, a water bottle, some cookies, and a few essentials—his toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant.
He didn't know how long the journey would take, but something told him it wouldn't be short.
In the living room, above the fireplace, hung a map of the United States José used as decoration.
Lucas took it down and spread it across the table.
The paper was yellowed but still readable.
"Chicago…" he murmured, tracing the city with his finger. "And Washington D.C. is here."
The distance was vast.
Nearly a thousand kilometers of empty highways, dead cities, and monsters.
Lucas took a deep breath.
"So it's going to be a long road."
He rolled up the map and tucked it into his backpack.
Through the window, the sky was overcast, gray, but sunlight still fought to break through.
He adjusted his backpack, slung the bow over his shoulder, and with the katana on his back, opened the front door.
Cold air struck his face.
The city was silent.
Only the crunch of fresh snow followed his steps.
"Let's go, fatty," he whispered toward the horizon. "You promised to wait for me in Washington… and I keep my promises."
He closed the door behind him and started walking east.
The journey had begun.
---
The morning air was heavy and cold.
Lucas adjusted the strap of his backpack, took one last look at José's house, and stepped into the empty street.
The Chicago sky hung low, smothered in gray clouds.
The wind blew hard, sweeping dust, paper, and dead leaves in swirling eddies across the pavement.
The map was folded neatly inside his jacket pocket.
He'd already decided the best route—the shortest way out of the city, following the eastern highway and several main avenues.
It would be a long walk, but a direct one.
He went on foot without hesitation.
"A car would make too much noise," he muttered. "On foot, I can see… hear… and practice."
His footsteps were muffled by the thin layer of snow.
All around, the buildings loomed empty—giant, lifeless sentinels.
Some had shattered windows; others were blackened by old fires.
Lucas stopped at a corner and looked toward the highway.
The cars stretched endlessly, rusted and frozen in place.
Everything was still—frozen in time.
"Chicago," he whispered. "Who would've thought you'd end like this?"
He adjusted his backpack and kept walking.
Now and then, he closed his eyes, trying to sense that energy inside him—the invisible pulse he'd awakened the night before.
He used it to gauge distance, to feel if anything else was nearby.
"Come on… focus…" he whispered.
Nothing.
Only the murmur of the wind and the faint rattle of a hanging sign swinging on a thread.
As he went deeper, the streets narrowed.
Some were blocked by crashed vehicles or collapsed debris.
Lucas climbed, jumped, or squeezed through, always alert, always with his katana ready and bow slung behind him.
He'd learned quickly not to trust silence.
It was deceptive.
Sometimes, right before something moved, the world held its breath.
"One step at a time," he whispered. "East… until I'm out of the city."
The air smelled of rust, ash, and something else—old and sour, like wet meat buried under the snow.
Lucas breathed through his mouth and quickened his pace.
He had a plan, and he was going to follow it:
Get out of Chicago before nightfall.
Train his power along the way.
And stay alive, no matter what waited in the shadows.
The journey had only just begun.