Prologue: Harbinger
"Mama… who's that man?"
The little girl murmured as she tugged at her mother's coat.
Her mother, too lost in her phone, didn't look up. She barely even noticed the stranger approaching.
A hood covered the stranger's head, hiding their face completely. From the darkness, the girl could only make out their silhouette tall, and broad-shouldered. She could tell he was a man. He moved strangely, his body leaning one way while his head tilted the other, as if his neck couldn't quite hold him straight.
He stopped outside the reach of the streetlight, standing at the edge of the shadows as though the light itself might burn him.
Then the streetlights began to flicker.
And the girl began to scream.
Chapter one: Set in Stone
The pink of the sunset faded into soft blue sky as thin clouds wisps across the vastness,
A warm breeze drifted carrying fall leaves with it. Birds chirped above the small town of Orland, Completing the peaceful evening.
Suddenly the chime of the afternoon bell echoed throughout the town sending the birds flocking away. Below, Harrison Orange County High School students burst through the wide double doors, pouring out like a flood, as if eight hours of instruction had starved them of freedom.
A short, scrawny kid with curly hair and an innocent-looking face riddled with pimples was the last to walk out. He moved hesitantly, and uncoordinated, like he was afraid to place the wrong step — as if the little concrete path beneath him were lined with land mines.
He wore thick glasses that made his eyes seem twice as large, a black hoodie, worn jeans, and boots with half-eaten soles. Though the temperature sat above seventy degrees, he seemed unbothered.
He shifted down the path, glancing left, right, then left again, before letting his eyes fall to the filthy concrete. For a moment, comfort flickered in them.
Looking at the ground brought him comfort.
Counting the little rocks embedded in the concrete, he kept walking, forgetting once again that he wasn't the only person in the world. This was how he liked it. "This is safe." He would repeat to himself.
"Twenty-three… twenty-four… twenty-five… twe—"
His count ended abruptly when he slammed face-first into a brick wall. The impact knocked him on his ass and pain shot up his spine. Still staring at the pavement, he noticed a pair of sneakers — the expensive kind he could only dream of owning, Which pissed him off even more.
That's when he realized It wasn't a wall he walked into but A person.
Anger flashed across his face, and he opened his mouth in frustration … but shut it just as quickly, After remembering it was his fault.
Sneering down at him was John Carlos Doe — the D1-bound wide receiver for Orange County High School with his friends behind him, Jake Donner, Brock Copland, and Allen Crackston. All four of them stared at the scrawny kid like he was a sack of shit cluttering their walkway.
Whatever anger the kid had left simmered out of him, replaced instantly by fear. His gaze dropped from John's face to its permanent resting place, The ground.
The cold concrete steadied him, grounding him just enough to breathe.
"The bastard's got those thick ass frames on but can't see two feet in front of him," Jake cracked, his country accent bleeding through each syllable.
He stepped forward, kneeling down as if he were about to pet a dog. Then he lifted the glasses off the kid's face and flicked them carelessly somewhere behind him.
"Go fetch, bitch," Jake barked.
They all watched the kid like he was some caged animal at the zoo. John Doe's face stayed neutral, arms crossed, like this was just part of his daily routine. Brock looked ready to burst out laughing. Allen didn't laugh at all — he just stared, his lips curled slightly upward, a sadistic glint in his eyes. He looked like he was barely holding himself back from pouncing on the kid and beating him until sundown.
The kid knew that look all too well. Allen was the worst of the four.
He scraped together whatever guts he had and began to crawl. He didn't know how far the glasses had been thrown, but he knew one thing with certainty, if he didn't play along with their sick game, he'd be limping for weeks.
So he crawled on.
Eventually His arms started to ache.
His knees dragged and scraped against the rough concrete.
Minutes passed. The commotion drew students out of their conversations, eager for this new source of entertainment, so desperate to see another's suffering. They pointed, laughed, and one by one pulled out their phones, starting a chain reaction. Within moments, the whole crowd was recording, streaming, posting on whatever app was trending.
The scrawny kid kept crawling. He was used to the torment. He didn't care about the audience or the pain burning in his arms and knees. He lost the ability to care a long time ago. He just wanted it to end so he could go home and maybe take a nap.
He realized he'd probably crawled past his glasses minutes ago, but he didn't ask. Asking would only fuel their laughter. So he crawled on.
Are you entertained?
Does my suffering amuse you?
Why, God… why me?
The thoughts echoed quietly inside him as he dragged himself forward.
Time felt nonexistent as he crawled on. Even the obnoxious laughter faded into white noise,
The faces blurred and the he camera flashes melted away. In this moment, there was only him — alone on the concrete path.
Then he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He ignored it at first. But the tap turned into a gentle shake, and he finally stopped. Slowly, he turned his head.
someone he did not recognize stood over him.
A middle age woman — Worry etched across her face and Warm green eyes that reminded him of his mother.
"Y-yes?" he stuttered out, confused why she had stopped him.
Isn't this what people want?
My suffering?
he wondered silently.
He looked past the woman, squinting his crippled eyes as hard as he could and realized The sky was dark now and Streetlights brightened the roads.
The small town of Orlando was still and silent.
He wasn't in the schoolyard anymore but—
in the middle of an empty parking lot.
His gaze dropped to his hands scraped raw and streaked with dried blood then to his jeans, carved up like designer pants a celebrity would pay a fortune to wear.
"Ah… I did it again," he whispered, his voice flat, like this wasn't the first time he'd lost himself.
He slowly pushed himself up, wincing. The woman moved as if to help, but froze when he lifted a hand to stop her.
When he finally stood, as straight as his body would let him he noticed a small figure peeking out from behind her leg. A child. Watching him quietly. The sight made a fresh wave of shame crawl up his throat. He looked down, suddenly feeling like an inconvenience.
"Thanks for the help, miss… and sorry for the confusion," he said quickly. His response was to the point. He hated wasting time, and would feel worse if he wasted any more of the woman's time.
He just wanted to go home and close his eyes,
he gave her the warmest smile he could manage. The one he'd practiced in the mirror a hundred times for moments like this.
He knew Orland like the back of his hand. He was positive he could get home from the parking lot.
Turning away from the woman and her child, he headed toward the nearest sidewalk. At the same time, the woman turned in the opposite direction, gently tugging her lingering child along. She crossed the street and continued down her side of the road.
He noticed her glance his way and quickly sped up, not wanting her to think he was following. After a few painful seconds of fast walking, he passed her and slipped into a familiar alleyway. Home was only a couple blocks away.
Though it was later in the evening,
The shadows seemed darker.
He wasn't someone who spooked easily, but a cold chill crawled up his spine. He quickened his pace. Each step made the alley feel longer… deeper… wrong. The streetlight that should've been visible at the other end was gone.
His throat tightened.
His walk became a jog.
His jog broke into a run.
The alley kept stretching, swallowing every bit of light. The brick walls on either side seemed to inch inward, narrowing, squeezing him.
He gasped looking over his shoulder hoping to turn around, take another way home only to see pitch blackness where the entrance should've been.
He began to scream.
His heart hammered in his chest so hard he thought it would break through his ribs.
The fear mixed adrenaline had him sprinting like an olympic athlete
He sprinted like his life depended on it.
Before he could react, his foot caught on something and he pitched forward. His world flipped upside down, legs in the air, and he barely had time to brace himself.
He hit the ground hard.
A scream tore out of him as his pinkie bent outward with a sickening snap. Pain shot through his whole arm and He tumbled uncontrollably, rolling like a loose leaf until his body slammed against a light post.
Then everything went black.
No dreams.
No drifting thoughts.
No sense of time.
Just the vast void of nothingness.
Then a voice filled the void — loud enough to shake his soul, yet so faint he could barely make out the words. It wasn't male or female. It simply was.
"You are needed, chosen."
"The time is now. Fear no more, take the leap and fly."
"Stand idle and reject His call… and you will fall and die."
He gasped awake.
Cold concrete pressed against his face. The streetlight above him burned his eyes like a miniature sun. His shirt clung to his skin, drenched in sweat, and his curly hair was plastered to his forehead.
"What the hell is this day…" he groaned.
He tried to push himself up, but the moment he put weight on his hand, white-hot pain ripped through his arm. He looked down.
His pinkie was swollen and purple, the skin split open by protruding bone, blood oozing like an oil well.
His face drained of color. Nausea rose sharply in his throat.
Cradling his injured arm against his chest, he forced himself to his knees. The world tilted. His vision blurred. He stumbled and grabbed the streetlight for support, clinging to it just to stay upright.
As he tried to steady his breathing, he noticed a silhouette beneath a distant streetlight, a woman and a child, standing across the road, maybe a hundred meters away.
No… how—? That's not possible.
He pressed his good hand to his forehead.
How long was I out?
Before he could piece anything together, a hooded figure stepped out of the shadows. It moved toward the woman and child with that same unnatural, tilted gait — like a corpse trying to remember how to walk. It stopped just outside the reach of the streetlight, lurking at the border between light and dark.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
It's not my problem, he told himself as he turned away.
But then he remembered the woman's hand on his shoulder and The warmth in her eyes. The moment she stopped for him when no one else did. And in the back of his mind, the echo of that impossible voice:
You are needed, chosen.
Before regret could catch him, his body moved on its own — the pain be damned.
Chapter Two:
Destined To Be Damned
The pain was static in his mind, and his legs felt twice their weight, but he pushed forward.
He wasn't thinking. He had no plan.
He didn't even know what he'd do once he reached the creep.
But he knew it had to be him.
He was done being idle. Done sitting on the sidelines while everyone acted like he was nothing — like he wasn't worth the dirt under their shoes.
For once, he wanted to matter.
He needed to be someone.
So when he got close enough, he swung.
He threw his fist with years of rage, humiliation, silence and pain behind it. He had never hit anyone in his life — but this time, his body didn't hesitate.
The punch connected with a sickening crack.
The impact sent the hooded figure spinning backward into the streetlight's reach, the glow finally revealing the stalker's face.
And instantly, white-hot agony shot up his arm.
He'd punched with his dominant hand — and by some cruel twist of fate, it was the same hand with the broken pinkie.
The moment his fist made contact, agony detonated through him.
He recoiled, a raw howl tearing out from between his teeth. Tears burned his eyes, blurring his already crippled vision. The shock of pain blew away the last of the static and adrenaline that held him upright. His knees buckled. He dropped to the ground, clutching his mangled hand against his chest.
With the adrenaline gone, fear and regret greedily rushed in… hungry and merciless.
the stalker slowly rose.
One of his hands desperately clutched his face — not to soothe it, but to hide it. He held his palm over his features like a morbid mask, as if trying to protect what was left of his exposed identity.
It was too late.
The kid had seen enough.
By his build, his gait and presence,
the stalker was clearly a man.
The woman realized it too. She backed away, pulling her child tightly behind her. Her breath hitched, but she didn't scream. She didn't run. She just watched, terrified and helpless.
But the man didn't pay her any mind.
He had his back turned to them, he stood towering over his new prey.
The kid lifted his head, locking eyes with the cold ones that stared back at him.
Every ounce of confidence he had was gone.
His body was broken and
exhausted.
He had nothing left.
But still…
He pushed a foot under himself.
Then the other.
Shaking, swaying, teeth clenched—
Despite It all He rose.
"Allen Crackston," the kid breathed.
The night was so quiet, so painfully still, one could have heard a leaf fall.
A spark of recognition and justice flickered in the woman's eyes.
Allen's body hitched. He froze mid-movement, as if he'd forgotten how to breathe. For a moment he stood motionless like a statue.
The kid stared back without blinking.
He was still afraid… but now he knew his enemy.
A cool wave of acceptance rolled over him, washing away the last traces of hesitation.
Silence swelled around them, so dense it felt like the night itself held its breath.
Then unhinged laughter cracked through it.
Splitting the air like broken glass.
Allen reeled backward, his spine bending at an impossible angle, his head dangling behind him like a Christmas ornament. His hand clamped over his mouth, as if trying and failing to smooth the manic crackle spilling out of him.
"No way— the freak from school catches me?" he barked, his whole body shuddering.
"Out of all people… it's you."
"It's my lucky day."
"God must be smiling upon me."
He murmured the last line while staring blankly at the sky, detached from reality.
Then everything stopped.
His body jerked upright — too fast, too stiff — like the world had unpaused at the wrong frame. His eyes locked back onto the kid.
"I'm going to fucking kill you, bastard."
Silence returned.
This time stained with dread.
The kid flinched, but didn't run. He swallowed hard— the gulp echoing louder than it should, as if the whole town heard it.
Footsteps.
Fast and Fleeing disrupted the moment.
He looked past Allen and saw the woman running, her child clinging to her back like a frightened koala.
And suddenly… something bloomed in his chest.
Not bitterness.
Not abandonment.
But pride and Accomplishment .
He saved them.
He done something that actually mattered.
A smile tugged at his lips — but he forced it down. Now wasn't the time.
He was still knee-deep in shit.
The desperate footsteps in the distance—
and the strange spark in the kid's eyes—
were enough to make Allen turn.
Time thickened.
The world felt submerged, as if the entire street had sunk beneath deep ocean water.
Allen rotated slowly.
The cold night breeze combed through his dirty-blond hair. Sweat flicked from the tip of his nose, droplets hanging in the air like suspended shards of glass.
His eyes never left the kid—
tracking him even as his neck twisted to its limit, his head turning farther than seemed humanly comfortable, his jaw tightening as he strained to keep his prey in sight—
And then he finished his turn.
His body stiffened as he stared at the silhouettes of his original victims, shrinking with every second.
He knew he was caught.
The kid realized the deviation—this moment of distraction—as his chance.
Sweat beaded down his brow as he searched for what to do.
He dropped his gaze to the fractured sidewalk, as if the cracks in the concrete held the answers he needed. He began to counted them—
anything to think, anything to plan, anything to focus.
But his mind scattered like loose papers in a storm.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—why can't I focus?
His hand trembled.
His breath hovered in his chest.
The world faded into a hollow stillness.
Damn it all. He cursed
his thoughts went blank and his body moved.
Rigid with pain and uncertainty,
aching so deep he felt it buzzing in his bones—
he took his first step.
Every muscle strained, pulling him forward like a puppet dragged by invisible strings. A cry clawed up his throat, but he forced it down.
The sidewalk stretched ahead of him, impossibly long, as if it inhaled all the air in the town.
There has to be an end to this… right?
Suddenly—time snapped back to normal.
Everything slammed into him at once.
Rain began to fall. Hard.
Cold sheets hammered the pavement, exploding into mist as his breath came fast and shallow, as if he'd sprinted miles instead of taking a few tortured steps. The sidewalk snapped back to its normal length beneath his feet.
The orange streetlights flared brighter through the downpour, stabbing his vision and sending a snarling pressure through his skull—until the icy rain cut through it, dulling the pain just enough to keep him moving.
He stumbled—but kept going.
Water slicked the ground, splashing up his legs as he pushed forward, and somehow, before he could fully process it, he closed the distance between them.
Allen reacted instantly—faster than he'd ever seemed before.
His fist whipped back, rain trailing from his knuckles, ready to cave in the kid's face—
But fate twisted.
The kid's legs finally gave out at that exact moment.
He dropped beneath the swing—not on purpose, but perfectly timed—and hurled his collapsing body into Allen's abdomen.
They went down hard.
Allen hit first.
The impact ripped the air from his chest, and his head snapped back with a sickening crack, bouncing off the rain-slick concrete like a dropped basketball. For a split second his body went slack, eyes glassy and unfocused as rain streaked across his face, the world ringing hollow inside his skull.
Blood poured from his nose, mixing with the water and spiraling across the pavement.
The kid collapsed on top of him—
their bodies tangled awkwardly.
His injured hand was pinned beneath Allen's armpit.
Pain detonated through him.
White-hot and Blinding.
He bit down hard, his teeth slicing into his tongue in a desperate attempt to dull the pain.
Warm crimson trickled from the corner of his mouth, mingling with the rain.
This was the least pain he'd felt tonight.
A shattered hand was nothing.
Scraped knees were nothing.
A sprained ankle was nothing.
Cuts and bruises—nothing.
"I know pain," he murmured.
"this isn't it."
Slowly, he lifted his head from Allen's chest.
Below him, Allen stared up in a daze, confusion swimming behind his eyes as they struggled to lock onto anything at all—his expression deranged, yet innocent, like a deer caught in headlights.
The kid clenched his jaw and drew his head back.
Time paused.
He looked up at the star-filled sky—so beautiful it almost convinced him his suffering wasn't real. Rain fell across his face, gentle now, each droplet caressing him like a quiet kiss of approval.
If not for the savagery of it all, it might have been a night worth remembering.
Then time came crashing back.
The rain turned cruel, slamming into him like hail.
The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth.
Pain and exhaustion surged through his limbs all at once.
He exhaled—
and drove his forehead down into Allen's face
Allen's scream tore through the rain.
Raw and Animalistic—
Tears streamed down his face, blending with the downpour until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. his features twisted into something unrecognizable, his nose sat crooked—collapsed inward, blood spilling freely. Several teeth lay scattered across the concrete, slick and white like spilled dice.
A few never made it that far.
They were embedded in the kid's forehead.
"You fucking bastard!" Allen howled.
The words barely left his mouth.
Before the kid slammed his head down again.
The crack echoed.
Blood erupted from Allen's nose in a grotesque arc, spraying upward before the rain dragged it back down. A strangled screech burst from his lips— cut short by the sound of bone and cartilage giving way completely.
His mouth split open, lip torn and hanging loose, more teeth shattering free—some skidding across the pavement, others vanishing beneath pooling red.
His face—
meat, pain and ruin. Masquerading as a man.
Allen convulsed beneath him.
When he finally looked up, one eye already swollen shut, purple and bloated. The other struggled to focus through rain and blood, vision warped and trembling.
And above him—
Something stared back.
The kid loomed there, breathing slow. Steady.
His eyes gone cold and distant.
Unblinking.
Unforgivable
Blood streamed down his face, tracing the bridge of his nose, slipping around the teeth lodged in his skin like macabre ornaments.
Rain washed over him, but it didn't soften him.
It sharpened him.
In the flickering streetlight, his shadow stretched long, giving him the appearance of someone bigger.
Allen's remaining eye widened.
Not with rage.
But with understanding
For the first time in his life
Allen Crackston was afraid.
Allen thrashed beneath him, using every ounce of strength he had left, trying to throw him off.
But the kid stayed put.
Allen didn't have nearly enough strength.
Not nearly enough resolve.
The kid watched him struggle, his face emptied of emotion—blank, stiff, like a papier-mâché mask molded into the shape of a boy.
Then he drew his head back once more.
Blood, rain, and broken teeth flicked from his forehead, scattering through the air.
Time slowed.
Raindrops hovered, stretched thin and trembling, each one catching the glow of the streetlight. In one droplet—just close enough—he saw his reflection.
For the first time that night,
he saw himself.
Curly hair plastered to his forehead, soaked and frizzed.
Cuts scored his face like a butcher's board.
Purple bruises ringed his eyes, swollen and dark—almost comical.
His breath hitched.
Tears burned behind his eyes.
That's me, he admitted.
In the reflection, he saw Allen's hand slip into his hoodie pocket.
A silver blur.
The knife drifted closer… closer—
Then it was inside him.
A white-hot flare tore through his chest, ripping the air from his lungs as the world snapped from silence into a screaming hurricane of sound.
He looked down.
The hilt jutted from his chest.
Then the pain arrived fully.
Blinding.
Burning.
So hot it felt unreal.
The cold rain struck next, dulling it—
Then the fire returned.
Again.
And again.
He tried to lift his arms.
They didn't respond.
His strength finally gave out.
His gaze drifted down to Allen, foolishly—desperately—hoping.
Allen stared back up at him, eyes wide with fascination, like an artist admiring his finished work.
That's when the kid knew.
He was doomed.
His vision blurred, black bleeding in and out at the edges.
You picked the wrong one,
he whispered, his voice rough and shredded—like it belonged to someone twice his age, already worn down by a life he never got the chance to live.
His eyes stayed on the stars.
I'm not brave.
I'm not strong.
His breath hitched.
I'm not chosen…
He exhale weakly
I was just sick of being nothing.
Rain slipped into his mouth as he tried to breathe.
And when I finally stood up…
his lips trembled,
I won.
A broken laugh escaped him as blood followed.
"But it cost me everything."
He swallowed, the effort too much.
I didn't even get to be someone.
The thought echoed faintly as his head tipped back.
Above him, the starry sky stretched
wide, beautiful enough to deepen his dread, cruel enough to make him forget, just for a moment,
that he was dying.
He sat there atop the man who had already passed out.
Allen—who would wake again.
Who would see the sun rise.
Even if it rose behind bars.
The kid stared at the sky.
His arms dangled uselessly at his sides.
Eventually, he could no longer tell the blackness of the night apart from his closed eyes.
"…Damn it."