Home.
Home is a distant idea in the depths, a memory dulled by time, a concept that fades a little more with each passing day.
Warmth spreads through Calen's body. He stirs gently and opens his eyes. A soft orange glow spills across his messy attic room, like sunlight filtered through nostalgia.
For a brief moment, everything feels right.
He sits up slowly. The room is just as he left it. Posters are still pinned to the walls, clothes are scattered across the floor, and a crooked lamp flickers in the corner. Dust drifts lazily in the quiet air.
Barefoot, Calen steps onto the creaking floorboards and walks toward the stairs. As he descends, laughter rises to meet him. Four voices. Distinct and familiar.
In the narrow hallway, he catches a glimpse of himself in a tall mirror.
He is younger, no more than five or six.
His face is round, untouched by fear. Bright, wide eyes shimmer with hope. His dark hair is shorter and messier. People used to say he looked a little like a girl. An oversized band t-shirt hangs past his knees, and long basketball shorts brush against his legs. He looks small, but full of dreams.
His steps feel lighter as he moves toward the dining room.
The door is open, and the orange light glows brighter beyond it.
Inside, he sees life.
His father, Julius Graves, is laughing as he lifts a small girl high into the air. His face is tired, wrinkles deepened by stress and love. Dark circles sit under warm green eyes. He wears a black and blue flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. Calen remembers how he always made sure their food was just the right temperature.
A small smile forms on Calen's lips. He takes a step into the room.
The girl is Lily Meyer. She was four at the time. Her parents were killed during a visit to the States, and she came to live with them after. Her bright blue eyes peek out from behind long, neat blonde hair. Her faint accent gives her words a soft edge. Calen remembers how she would bring him her toys at night, just to keep him company.
He steps closer.
At the table sits Vivian Dahl-Graves, his mother. She is quietly solving a crossword puzzle beside an older boy. Her dark brown hair falls neatly around her face. Her blouse is a muted green, and her pants are pitch black. Her features are blurry, like a photo left in the rain. Calen remembers the songs she used to sing when she tucked him in for naps.
Another step forward.
Then his eyes fall on Arman Graves, his older brother. His name means hope. His birth had been difficult, but he survived, and everyone believed he was a miracle. Arman is like a slightly older mirror of Calen. He gave Calen his love of music and his sense of style. Calen remembers sitting on the floor in Arman's room, listening to records on his stereo.
The warmth in the room deepens. Calen steps fully inside.
Then, silence.
Everyone turns to face him.
Julius tilts his head. "Where did you go, little dude?"
Calen frowns. "What are you talking about?" His voice startles him. It sounds older.
He glances at the dresser mirror nearby. The reflection shows who he is now. His face is thin. Haunted. There are smudges of ash on his hoodie and dried blood on his shoes.
He looks back at his family.
His father and Lily are scowling. His mother and brother have their faces hidden in their hands, shoulders shaking quietly.
Lily stomps her foot. "You left us." Her small fists are clenched.
A wave of guilt crashes through Calen's chest. Heavy and cold.
He wants to say something. Anything. But the words don't come.
"You didn't even say anything." His mother's voice barely makes it through the sobs.
Calen looks down, guilt pooling in his chest. "I'm sorry... sorry..." he whispers, fists clenched so tight his arms tremble.
Arman lowers his hands from his face. He just stares at Calen. Not a single word leaves his mouth.
Calen can't bear it. He turns, his voice faint as a breeze. "I want to come home..."
But something deep inside him pushes back. The thought of home no longer feels safe. It feels like something terrible would happen if he tried.
He steps forward, and the dining room fades behind him.
He is now standing in his school.
His old homeroom was familiar yet off. Desks, walls, chalkboard, all there. But the people are just blurred faces, their mouths moving, voices loud and meaningless, a chorus of noise that washes over him.
He walks toward his desk.
Something is sitting on it.
A dark shape, hard to make out at first.
As he approaches, the object becomes clear.
His Soul Manifestation.
But it's not the flintlock pistol he knows. This time, it's a heavy revolver. The wood is deep ebony, the metal dark and cold like obsidian. A thick black aura leaks off it, pulsing.
It speaks.
The voice is his own, but distorted and cruel.
"Why are you so afraid?"
The words stab deep. Calen stays silent.
"You panic the moment danger shows up," it says. "You let people down. Always have. Always will."
He doesn't argue. He just stares at it, frozen.
"So tell me. Why are you so scared?"
Calen opens his mouth. Then closes it.
Instead, he turns and walks to the window. Outside, the scene changes. He sees himself. Younger. Standing beside Kaitlyn. They are pressed against the alley wall, terrified, hiding in the shadows. An older group of people are attacking a boy nearby. A stranger.
The boy screams for help, desperate and broken. He tries to run but is yanked back by the ankle and slammed down again.
Calen turns away, his breath quickening.
The Manifestation speaks again.
"Look at it. Look."
Calen hesitates. Then slowly turns his head back.
He watches the scene again.
He watches what really happened.
The group eventually leaves. The boy stays on the ground, bleeding out. Calen remembers that feeling. The paralyzing fear. The threats. The helplessness. And then running.
They never found out who the boy was. They didn't know why it happened. But they had been there. And they had done nothing.
The Manifestation's voice cuts in again. "You are a coward."
Tears slip down Calen's face.
"You could have saved him. But you were too scared."
Calen finally speaks. "I... I didn't know what to do."
His voice breaks apart as he sobs.
And the world around him begins to crack.
The Manifestation speaks again, its distorted voice crawling into Calen's ears. "Take me."
Calen snaps his head back to it. "What?" he asks shakily.
"Take me and allow me to devour the fear that resides within you." It pauses, waiting for a response. When none comes, the voice grows louder, more intense. "Pick up the Dreadshot! Take the fear-devouring weapon! Let us grow stronger together!"
Calen's heart pounds. A thought flashes across his mind. "I don't have to be scared?"
He takes a step toward the Dreadshot. The weight of fear he's always carried feels like it could finally lift. With power, maybe he could protect the ones he cares about.
The world around him begins to fracture more, spiderweb cracks splintering in all directions.
"Make your choice, Calen! Quickly!" the voice demands.
Calen lunges forward, stumbles over a desk, then scrambles to his feet. His hand wraps around the weapon. A feeling floods his body. It's not warmth. Not comfort. It feels the same way it did the first time his Soul awakened. Raw. Unfiltered. Heavy.
The world shatters completely. Everything turns white.
He jolts awake.
The diner is dim, no longer pitch black, but far from bright. Blurred shadows give way to faint outlines of the booths and tables.
"I fell asleep while I was on watch," Kaitlyn says with a sheepish laugh, rubbing her cheek. She gives him a light smack on his sore shoulder. "Anyway, it's your turn."
Calen groans softly, rubbing his eyes. He can make out the features on her face now. She looks tired, but the corners of her mouth still twitch with that slight smile she always hides behind her seriousness.
He sits up and shifts over to the boarded window beside his booth. Kaitlyn pulled her coat tighter, returns to her spot, and lays down.
---
Time drips by. An hour, maybe two. Nothing happens.
Calen stares into the dark, his dream replaying in his mind. Every word. Every feeling.
Then he hears it.
A low groan.
His body tenses instantly. His eyes dart to the source.
Another groan. Lower, drawn out.
He squints.
Outside the diner, barely visible in the dim light, are two towering figures. Tall. Thin. And darker than the shadows around them. Their silhouettes are warped, somehow darker than darkness itself.
His breath catches.
They stand far apart, each on opposite ends of the street, just outside his field of view. He can't look at both at the same time.
His eyes snap from one to the other.
Every time he shifts focus, the one he's not looking at moves closer.
They don't make a sound.
They don't speak.
But they are watching.
And Calen is frozen, too afraid to blink.
His mind is scattered. He doesn't know what to do. The figures are getting closer with every passing second.
In a panic, he squeezes his eyes shut.
"What an idiotic move." The distorted voice echoes in Calen's mind. It's the same one from his dream. "We obviously have a lot of work to do." The tone shifts. Sharp. Urgent.
"Calen! Open your eyes, now!"
His eyes snap open.
The figures are gone.
A creaking sound comes from the booth behind him. Something heavy settles into the seat. A low groan rolls out from just behind his head.
Calen starts to hyperventilate.
Then instinct kicks in.
He grabs his Manifestation from his hoodie pocket. The darkness makes it hard to see, but he doesn't need to. He feels it pulse in his hand.
A cold wave rushes over him as the weapon begins to feed. It draws in the fear like smoke, and his mind slowly starts to settle.
A metallic sound cuts through the tension as the Dreadshot cocks back.
Without hesitation, Calen spins and fires.
A horrific, wet crack fills the diner. The shot tears through the neck of something hunched in the booth.
Calen throws himself out of the seat, breath ragged.
Ronan bolts upright at the sound. "What's happening?!"
Kaitlyn rubs her eyes, blinking through the dimness.
"There is something in here!" Calen yells.
Everyone grabs their Manifestations, eyes darting through the gloom. They hold their positions in silence, listening.
Then, another groan.
But this one comes from outside.
All eyes shift to the window. Even Lyra, now awake and alert, peers out into the street.
Through the darkness, they spot it. A towering outline, barely visible, clutching the side of a building.
Suddenly, a sharp hum fills the air.
Crackling blue light bursts from a rooftop. Neon glows reflect off every surface for just a moment.
Then a focused, blinding beam of energy cuts through the city. It hits the dark figure dead on.
The creature drops like a puppet with its strings cut.
"What the fuck was that?!" Kaitlyn slams her hand against the wall.
"Shush!" Ronan snaps.
She goes quiet. Everyone does.
There's nothing they can do but wait.
Now that the light has returned, the diner reveals more of itself. Shadows peel away from corners. The windows are still foggy and dust-lined, but they let in just enough illumination to see clearly again.
Calen slowly walks toward the booth, keeping the Dreadshot aimed and ready.
A thick, black substance is smeared across the table and seat. It glistens like oil, but there's no scent. No blood smell. No rot.
He swallows hard and takes another step closer. The thing slumped in the booth twitches once, then goes still.
Ronan is right behind him now, the Ruby-Dragon Sword in hand. "Careful," he whispers.
Calen nods. His grip tightens as he reaches out and gently prods the shape with the barrel of the Dreadshot.
It tips, falling onto the floor with a wet thump.
What lies beneath the shadows is... vaguely human. But not quite.
Its limbs are too long. The proportions are all wrong, stretched like something sculpted from wax and left out in the sun. A narrow, featureless face stares back at them. No eyes. No mouth. Just smooth, black skin, too dark to be natural. Its neck is a gaping wound, burned and warped from the Dreadshot's bullet.
Kaitlyn crouches beside it. "This... was inside here with us?"
"It must've slipped in when we were all asleep," Lyra says, rubbing her arm.
"No," Calen mutters. "It was watching. Sitting there, behind me."
Everyone looks unsettled. The quiet drags on too long.
Ronan finally breaks it. "This thing's not one of the usual freaks we've seen before."
Kaitlyn squints. "It's like it doesn't even belong to this floor."
Calen stares at it for a long time.
The Dreadshot feels heavier in his hand now. Like it knows.