Author: Dustin Harthorn

WHAT IS THIS:

In a world where superpowers have become a mundane part of everyday life, heroes are less the shining beacons of hope they once were, and more the carefully curated faces of multi-billion-dollar corporations. The air hums with the static of constant chaos: billboards advertise superhero brands, news channels spew endless reports of superhuman skirmishes, and the average person moves through the wreckage of a society that’s learned to live with it all. Yet, even in the midst of this madness, there are those who slip through the cracks—people like Herbert Smalls.

Herbert is a man you wouldn’t notice twice. In his early sixties, he’s spent the last forty years working at a local golf course, a quiet man content to keep his head down and his routine intact. With tattered clothes, a weathered appearance, and a fondness for precise lawn trimming, Herbert’s life revolves around simplicity. A cold beer after a long day, an occasional look over the fence at the neighbor’s too-long grass—nothing more. The chaos of superpowers never touched him. Until the day it did.

When Herbert discovers, in a shocking moment of catastrophic destruction, that he possesses the bizarre ability to create explosions with his fists, his carefully constructed life crumbles around him—quite literally. In one unfortunate swing, Herbert obliterates the golf course he has worked on for decades, setting off a series of events that pulls him from a quiet existence into the world of vigilantes, criminals, and superpowered chaos. No longer just a man in the background, he takes on the unlikely mantle of The Fence Runner, finding solace in running fences and unleashing his newfound explosive powers on those who cross him.

But Herbert’s journey is far from a hero’s rise. He doesn’t seek fame or glory—just a sense of belonging, something he never had. His explosive fists tear through suburban streets, leaving broken fences and charred lawns in his wake. From odd vigilante jobs to dangerous altercations with local gangs, Herbert’s transformation from an unremarkable man to a fearsome force of destruction becomes inevitable. And as his temper, long suppressed, boils over, he begins to lose control, his anger driving him down the path from reluctant vigilante to full-blown villain.

Enter Louis Jones, a seasoned agent of the Deep State, and part of an elite covert group known only as the Storm Watchers. Jones has seen it all—telepaths, energy manipulators, even people who can turn reality into candy. Yet something about Herbert Smalls stands out. The man is an enigma, a quiet storm brewing just beneath the surface, and Jones knows he can’t be left unchecked. When Herbert’s final explosive rampage leaves a trail of destruction too large to ignore, it’s up to Jones and his team to bring the old man in before he tears the world apart.

With sharp wit and a no-nonsense approach, Jones leads the charge to subdue The Fence Runner, culminating in a battle that tests both of them—Herbert’s explosive fists against the tactical genius of the Storm Watchers. But in a world teetering on the edge of chaos, the question isn’t just whether Herbert can be stopped, but whether the world can survive the storm he’s unleashed.

Heroes & Fences is a darkly humorous, deeply detailed exploration of a man who never wanted to stand out, and the absurd, explosive journey that turns him into a force to be reckoned with.

Prologue

Herbert Smalls had never asked for much in life. Every morning, for the past forty-two years, his alarm clock would buzz at exactly 5:13 AM, a time he chose for no reason other than that it felt right. The buzz, a tinny, metallic sound produced by a relic of a machine manufactured in 1977, would rattle on his small wooden nightstand that he built himself in the spring of ’92 using oak from a tree he’d cut down during a brief and uneventful attempt at woodcraft. It had three drawers, all of which stuck a little when pulled. The top drawer contained socks, the middle drawer contained more socks, and the bottom drawer remained mysteriously empty, save for a single marble that, over the years, had become impossibly stuck to the corner.

Herbert, of course, wore only one brand of sock: Whiskers & Wool. He appreciated the texture. It reminded him of the woolen undergarments his grandmother used to make him wear as a child, garments that somehow itched, despite being washed three times a week in a concoction of lavender, goat milk, and disappointment.

He always put his left sock on first, followed by the right, though one could argue that “always” was a strong word. There was that one time in 1984 when, due to a bee sting to the ankle, he had put the right sock on first out of sheer panic. This event haunted him occasionally, usually during long, sleepless nights, but he never spoke of it.

After donning his socks, Herbert would shuffle to his bathroom. The tiles—white but slightly off-white because, as Herbert liked to believe, they had absorbed just a touch of the world’s melancholy—were cold beneath his feet. He preferred it that way. His toothbrush, a blue and white model from 1999, stood at a slight angle in its holder, not because of design, but because Herbert had once dropped it and, despite the fall being less than three feet, the base had chipped.

The day he discovered his power, everything had begun as it always did. Socks first, brush teeth, avoid eye contact with the spider that lived in the corner of his bathroom (he’d named it Gerald but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone—people might think him mad). At precisely 6:03 AM, Herbert would step into his car: a 1991 Buick Roadmaster that smelled faintly of old cigars, though Herbert never smoked. It was a mystery he was yet to solve, though he suspected the previous owner had a fondness for cheap tobacco and even cheaper cologne.

Herbert drove the same route to the golf course every day. He counted the potholes as a form of personal inventory. There were 18 in total, though one could argue the small crack near the old Weeping Willow was technically a pothole-in-waiting, but Herbert wasn’t one to rush judgment on asphalt imperfections.

The Morning Winds Golf Course had been his place of employment for nearly forty years. He’d mowed every blade of grass, raked every bunker, and once, when he had nothing better to do, spent an entire afternoon collecting stray golf balls that had nestled in the underbrush of the 7th hole, the one where Mr. Winthrop had famously shouted, “FORE!” only to send his ball careening into a nearby beehive. Mr. Winthrop had never returned, and the bees had since become the unofficial guardians of that corner of the course.

Herbert had never cared much about superpowers. They were a dime a dozen these days. The kid at the grocery store could control bread dough with his mind, the mailman had once flown halfway across town to avoid traffic, and, most notably, Mayor Harrison could turn into a ferret but refused to do so publicly after a rather embarrassing incident at the city’s 4th of July parade three years ago.

Herbert’s life was simple, routine. No powers, no drama, no explosions.

Until, of course, the explosion.

It had been an uneventful morning at the golf course. Herbert was trimming the edges of the 5th hole, a particularly fussy patch of grass that seemed to grow at half the rate of the others. He was contemplating the existence of clover—why it only grew where it wasn’t wanted—when his hand twitched. A small, barely noticeable tremor, but enough to knock the clippers from his grasp. They clattered to the ground with the sound of a hundred spoons being dropped in a cafeteria. He bent down to pick them up, muttering something about the quality of modern tools, when his fist clenched… and exploded.

Now, it wasn’t a small explosion—like when you accidentally shake a bottle of soda and it bursts open with a disappointing fizzle. No, this was a full-blown, cinematic explosion, the kind you see in movies where people leap away from fireballs in slow motion. Except there were no fireballs, just a crater where the 5th hole used to be, a large portion of the fairway uprooted and flung skyward, and Herbert Smalls standing there, blinking into the smoking abyss.

He stared at his hand in disbelief. It looked like any normal hand—wrinkled, a bit calloused from years of yard work, a single scar on the thumb from a run-in with a particularly sharp rake in 1987—but apparently, it was capable of mass destruction.

Herbert’s brain worked slowly these days, like a rusty bicycle chain trying to catch on gears, and it took him a full minute before he realized what had happened. He had blown up the golf course. The golf course. The only thing he had ever cared for, besides his socks and the peculiar smell of his car.

“Oh,” was all Herbert could manage to say.

He stood in the midst of the destruction, the smell of dirt and fresh-cut grass mingling with the lingering scent of his homemade lunch—bologna and cheese on rye, wrapped carefully in wax paper and now strewn across what remained of the 5th green.

Panic set in quickly. Herbert was not a man built for panic. His heart rate typically only increased when he misplaced the television remote, and even then, it was a controlled concern. But now? Now he felt something bubbling inside him—like an overboiled kettle—and that bubbling quickly turned into a decision that changed his life.

Herbert snapped.

“They’ll never let me live this down,” he muttered to himself, eyes darting around as if the bees from the 7th hole would show up to judge him. “No… they’ll… they’ll hunt me!”

And thus, Herbert Smalls—the man who had spent four decades trimming greens, collecting golf balls, and quietly enjoying the soft hum of mediocrity—became The Fence Runner. He didn’t know why he chose that name. There wasn’t a fence in sight, and running hadn’t been a strong suit of his since the late ‘70s, but it sounded… heroic.

First Battle of Fence Runner

It had been exactly four days, seven hours, and twelve minutes since Herbert Smalls had blown up the Morning Winds Golf Course, give or take a few seconds due to the odd rhythm of his wristwatch, which he’d bought from a discount store in 1995. It lost time at an unpredictable rate, but Herbert didn’t mind; in a world that prided itself on synchronization, he found comfort in the small rebellion of being precisely off-schedule.

Herbert had not adjusted well to his new life. Since the explosion, he’d been living under the delusion—no, the certainty—that the world had always been waiting for The Fence Runner. It just didn’t know it yet. So, when Herbert stood before the mirror in his small, linoleum-floored bathroom, meticulously tying an old checkered scarf around his neck, he felt a growing sense of destiny. The scarf wasn’t special, but it did add flair. Heroes needed flair.

Today was different. He could feel it in his knees, specifically the left one, which tended to twinge when something important was about to happen. “A storm’s comin’,” he muttered to no one, testing out his new gravelly voice—a voice he believed should match his newfound heroic persona. It wasn’t great. Sounded more like he had a throat infection.

And so, armed with nothing but a checkered scarf, his explosive fists, and a gut feeling, Herbert ventured into the city.

---

It was on the corner of Birch Street and Lamp Post Avenue—a street named not after an actual lamp post, but after a man named Jonathan Post who, in 1943, famously invented the world’s first adjustable lampshade—that Herbert’s first challenge appeared.

At first, it seemed like a normal day. Cars honked in a manner that suggested no real hurry, just habitual impatience. Pigeons cooed softly, one of them pecking at a discarded pretzel with a level of determination that could only be described as heroic in its own right. And then, Herbert saw it.

The creature was at least twenty feet tall—no, thirty feet—and covered in scales that shimmered with a sickly green hue. Its eyes burned with a crimson fire, and its claws scraped the pavement as it lumbered toward him. Herbert instinctively balled his fists, ready to unleash the full fury of his newfound powers.

He called the creature The Lizardator. Not because it looked particularly like a lizard, but because Herbert’s imagination had been working overtime lately, and everything had to end with “-ator” or “-zilla.”

“Fence Runner,” Herbert growled to himself. “This is your moment.”

The Lizardator roared—a deep, guttural sound that caused a nearby newspaper stand to topple over, scattering magazines and yesterday’s news all over the sidewalk. The sight of the disarray only fueled Herbert’s sense of purpose. He approached slowly, each step deliberate, the heel of his shoe squeaking slightly due to a loose sole.

As the monster bellowed again, Herbert threw a punch, fully expecting the earth to tremble beneath the force of his blow. And tremble it did—though mostly because his punch triggered a small explosion that sent him hurtling backward into a nearby fruit stand. He crashed through the display with a symphony of squashed tomatoes and rolling apples, his body suddenly covered in a mixture of bruises and melon juice.

“HA!” Herbert exclaimed, leaping back to his feet, his bones creaking in protest. “Explosive fists… with a side of vitamin C.”

The Lizardator was unfazed by the destruction of the fruit stand, but Herbert wasn’t done. He charged again, this time leaping into the air with the grace of a man who hadn’t jumped in three decades. His punch connected, another explosion ripping through the air as the monster staggered back, hissing like a faulty steam engine.

Herbert, however, found himself once again airborne, colliding with a lamppost (the actual object, not Jonathan Post’s legacy), and slumping to the ground. His body felt remarkably fine, though; perhaps the explosions were healing him somehow, or maybe it was the adrenaline masking the inevitable back pain he’d experience later.

The battle raged on, each of Herbert’s punches creating shockwaves of destruction. Trash cans were upturned, parking meters exploded into showers of coins, and yet, Herbert couldn’t feel more alive. His hands tingled with power, his scarf flapping dramatically in the wind that didn’t exist.

But as the final blow landed—an earth-shattering, monumental punch that caused the air to ripple like pond water—something changed. The monster, which had seemed so menacing moments ago, was now… smaller? Less monstrous? Herbert blinked.

The Lizardator wasn’t a towering beast. In fact, it wasn’t even reptilian. The scales? Merely a shabby leather jacket. The glowing red eyes? Just the reflection of some car headlights. And the claws? Well, those were simply hands. Hands attached to a man. A very ordinary man.

A very ordinary, now thoroughly exploded man.

Herbert blinked again, realization washing over him in slow, disbelieving waves. The “Lizardator” was, in fact, a mugger. A mugger who had been attempting to rob an elderly woman before Herbert had intervened. The woman, of course, had long since fled the scene, leaving Herbert standing alone in the aftermath of his “victory.”

“Oh,” he said, feeling a bit deflated.

The mugger, now mostly a crater with bits of debris scattered around, was nothing special. No superpowers, no menacing backstory, just a poor soul trying to make a dishonest living in a world where even kids could move mountains with their minds. Frankly, being a powerless mugger in a city full of super-powered people was both embarrassing and a bit sad. Herbert almost felt bad for the man.

Almost.

“Really? A mugger? In this day and age?” Herbert muttered, rubbing his aching knuckles. “No powers? No armor? No… anything?”

He shook his head, staring at the scattered coins from the exploded parking meter as they rolled across the street. He briefly considered collecting them, but that seemed beneath a hero of his caliber.

“Well,” Herbert said to the now-smoking sidewalk, “I suppose even Fence Runners have to start somewhere.”

He turned and walked away, his scarf fluttering in the non-existent wind once more, as the distant sound of sirens slowly approached.

The Quiet Before Soup

Herbert Smalls wasn’t much for fanfare. After his bout with the “Lizardator”—or, as he later reflected, Larry the Mugger—he needed something simple, something grounded. And so, at precisely 9:03 AM, he found himself walking through the automatic doors of Big Saver Grocery Mart, a place he had frequented since the grand opening in 1986. He had attended the ribbon-cutting ceremony that day, and though no one would remember it but him, he had been the first customer to buy a loaf of Stark White bread, which claimed to be the softest in the city.

The store was, in a word, comfortable. It wasn’t fancy, nor did it try to be. The faded linoleum floors were speckled with little black dots, a pattern that once suggested modernity but now simply said, “We’ve been here a while, haven’t we?” The ceiling buzzed with the soft hum of fluorescent lights, one of which flickered near the frozen foods section, though no one had bothered to fix it in years. Herbert didn’t mind. It felt lived-in, like an old sweater that had been washed too many times.

He passed the produce section first. The bananas, still slightly green, were stacked with meticulous care, while the apples—Granny Smith, Fuji, Gala, and Honeycrisp—were arranged in neat pyramids, each variety claiming to be the superior apple. Herbert paused for a moment, considering the Honeycrisps. He’d once heard a debate between two shoppers in this very aisle about the flavor profile of Honeycrisp versus Fuji apples. One had argued that the Fuji was the “thinking man’s apple,” while the other had declared the Honeycrisp was “for people who wanted a little thrill in life.” Herbert had taken the Fuji that day. He liked to think of himself as a practical man.

Today, however, he simply grabbed an orange.

As he meandered through the aisles, Herbert noticed a television mounted near the ceiling, playing the local news. The volume was low, but the captioning scrolled across the bottom of the screen in a neat, clinical font. A new superhero, The Bisonator, had stopped a runaway train by headbutting it, and a dog with the ability to teleport was causing minor chaos downtown by appearing in bank vaults and then disappearing again before anyone could catch it. There was also something about a building-sized jellyfish terrorizing the docks, but the news anchor appeared nonchalant as if this was just another Tuesday.

Herbert shook his head slightly. It was all so… typical now. He remembered a time when the thought of a super-powered canine would have been front-page news for weeks, but now? It barely interrupted the usual chatter about the weather and local politics.

He continued down the aisles, weaving between a mother juggling two children and a grocery list the size of a small novel, and an elderly man who seemed to be contemplating the nature of cheese. Herbert nodded politely at both but kept his pace steady. He wasn’t in any rush, after all. The world could wait.

And then he arrived at the soup aisle.

There was something about the soup aisle that always struck Herbert as oddly serene. The shelves were lined with an almost reverent order—rows upon rows of canned soups, each label facing forward, perfectly aligned. It was a gallery of broth, a museum of convenience. Herbert paused and let his eyes wander over the labels. There was Classic Chicken Noodle, the reliable standby. Right next to it sat Hearty Beef Stew, a soup that pretended to be more than soup. It was a meal in a can, it proclaimed boldly. And further down the line, there was Cream of Mushroom, which Herbert had never trusted. It wasn’t so much the taste but the texture. He didn’t want his soup to feel like it was trying to be pudding.

He picked up a can of Tomato Basil and examined it. The label was shiny, new. It smelled faintly of the glue used to attach it. Herbert considered the can for a moment longer than was necessary, turning it over in his hands as if the secrets of the universe were hidden beneath the barcode. It claimed to be “artisan,” though Herbert doubted any artisans had been involved in the process.

Setting the can back on the shelf, he moved further down the aisle. His eyes landed on a new contender: Cajun Shrimp Bisque. Herbert raised an eyebrow. He had never trusted bisque either. Too fancy for its own good. But he found himself staring at it, imagining a life where bisque was a regular part of his diet. He pictured himself in a cozy cabin somewhere, far from the noise of the city, wearing a sweater and reading a book while sipping on bisque. The thought was absurd, of course. He didn’t even own a sweater like that.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of contemplation, Herbert reached for a can of Split Pea and Ham. Simple, no frills. It was dependable, like the Buick. He liked that.

---

His groceries were light today—just a few things: a loaf of Stark White bread, a carton of eggs, the aforementioned orange, the can of Split Pea and Ham, and a box of tea bags. Herbert liked tea in the evening. It helped with the digestion, or so he’d read in an article once, though he couldn’t remember where.

At the checkout counter, the cashier—a young man with blue hair and the faintest glow about him, a clear sign of latent superpowers—scanned his items with an impressive lack of enthusiasm. Herbert handed over a few bills and a handful of change, collected his receipt, and packed his groceries into two paper bags. He liked paper bags. They were sturdy, and there was something satisfying about how they crinkled when you folded them just right.

Out in the parking lot, Herbert packed his car with the same careful attention he applied to everything in his life. The eggs went in the passenger seat—he didn’t trust them in the trunk—and the bread was tucked in carefully beside them. The other items found their places with ease. Herbert took a moment to adjust the angle of the split pea soup can. It sat at a perfect 45-degree angle in the bag now, just as it should.

He drove home in silence, save for the gentle hum of the Buick’s engine, which had developed a slight rattle over the past few months. Herbert knew it was the fan belt. He’d get to it eventually.

---

Back home, Herbert unpacked the groceries with the precision of a man who had spent his life organizing the world around him. The bread went in its designated drawer, the eggs into the fridge, and the soup was placed on a shelf reserved specifically for canned goods. It was a small shelf—there wasn’t much variety in Herbert’s pantry, but it was organized. Everything had its place.

He moved to the kitchen with a slow but deliberate pace, taking out a small saucepan. The soup was first—Split Pea and Ham, simmering gently on the stove. As the smell filled the kitchen, Herbert turned his attention to the chicken, which he had already seasoned earlier that morning with just the right amount of salt, pepper, and a dash of thyme. He laid a few lemon slices over the top before placing it into the oven. Baked lemons. He liked the subtle tang they brought to the dish.

As the meal cooked, Herbert stood at the window, looking out over his small backyard. The fence—newly repaired after a particularly windy autumn—stood proudly, marking the boundary of his world. He appreciated the fence. It didn’t ask for much.

---

When dinner was finally ready, Herbert sat at his small, round kitchen table. The chicken was tender, the soup was warm, and the lemons were baked just right. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, the quiet of the evening settling around him like an old, familiar blanket.

There was no rush. There was never any rush.

Rise of the Fence Runner

Herbert Smalls sat at his small kitchen table, staring at the classifieds section of the local paper. The ink was smudged in places, a result of the cheap newsprint combined with Herbert’s tendency to absentmindedly drag his fingers across the page. The paper crinkled under his hands as he adjusted the angle for what must have been the seventh time. Finding a job wasn’t difficult in the city—people always needed help with something—but finding the right job? That was trickier.

Herbert didn’t want anything corporate. No desks, no suits, no meetings about synergy or whatever new buzzword was making the rounds in the business world. No, Herbert wanted something simple, something that didn’t ask too much of him. The paper offered a few potential candidates: Delivery Driver for Fred’s Floral Service, Warehouse Stocker for Bulk ‘n’ Save, and an ad for Part-Time Custodian at the local high school. None of these filled Herbert with any particular excitement, but then again, he didn’t need excitement. He just needed to pay the bills.

He circled the ad for Part-Time Custodian, mostly because the hours were flexible and it sounded peaceful. He could imagine himself sweeping the empty halls, the sound of the broom echoing softly against the tiled floors. There was a certain tranquility in janitorial work that appealed to Herbert. Quiet, predictable, and—most importantly—he could work in peace.

But all that would come later.

For now, he had training to do.

Herbert had made a decision. A strange, irrational decision, but one he felt in his bones—particularly his knees, which were aching this morning for no discernible reason. He had taken up the mantle of The Fence Runner, and if he was going to commit to this, he would need to live up to the name. After all, a man couldn’t call himself a Fence Runner if he didn’t actually run on fences.

---

The first fence he chose was the one in his own backyard. It was a simple wooden structure, recently repaired, standing about four feet high. Not particularly challenging, but Herbert didn’t want to start with anything too ambitious. After all, the last thing he needed was a twisted ankle—his insurance didn’t cover superhero training.

The morning air was crisp, with a slight breeze that rattled the leaves of the old oak tree at the far end of his yard. Herbert stood at the base of the fence, hands on his hips, gazing up at the wooden slats as if they were the walls of some great fortress.

“All right, Fence,” he muttered under his breath. “You and me. Let’s do this.”

Herbert took a tentative step onto the bottom rail, testing the wood. It creaked slightly under his weight but held firm. Satisfied, he planted his other foot, balancing himself with a slight wobble. He could feel the fence shifting slightly beneath him, a reminder that he was not, in fact, a spry young man. But he pressed on, shuffling slowly along the length of the fence like an awkward tightrope walker.

About halfway across, Herbert began to pick up speed. His arms flailed a bit as he struggled to maintain balance, but he kept going, his feet moving in short, quick steps. The wood groaned beneath him, but Herbert ignored it. He was The Fence Runner, after all. Running fences was what he did.

He reached the end of the fence and jumped off with a small, triumphant flourish—though “jump” might have been an exaggeration. It was more of a controlled fall, but Herbert counted it as a victory.

“Not bad,” he muttered, brushing his hands off. “Not bad at all.”

But running on one fence wasn’t enough. If he was going to be a proper hero, he needed to train, to hone his skills. And so, over the next few days, Herbert expanded his territory.

---

The next fence was on Maple Street. It was slightly taller, closer to six feet, and painted an unfortunate shade of pale blue that had long since faded in the sun. Herbert approached it with the same sense of gravitas he’d given his own fence, though this time he felt a bit more confident. After all, he had successfully completed his first fence run. How hard could this one be?

The answer: harder than he expected.

As he climbed onto the fence, Herbert realized that the extra height added an element of danger he hadn’t considered. The wind was a bit stronger up here—or at least, that’s what he told himself as he wobbled precariously. But he was determined.

Step by step, he made his way along the top of the fence. His heart pounded in his chest, not from exertion, but from the thrill of it all. This was more than just running on fences—this was training. The kind of training that would make him ready for anything the world threw at him, whether it was muggers, monsters, or… well, probably more muggers.

“You’re doing good, Herbert,” he muttered to himself as he reached the midpoint of the fence. “Real good.”

His foot slipped.

For a brief, terrifying moment, Herbert flailed wildly, arms windmilling in a desperate attempt to stay upright. He felt his balance tipping, gravity pulling him toward the pavement below. But then, in a flash of inspiration—or possibly sheer luck—he planted his fist down on the fence.

BOOM.

The explosion wasn’t large, just enough to propel him backward and send him crashing into a nearby bush. But it worked. Herbert stared up at the sky through a tangle of leaves and twigs, his breath coming in short, startled gasps.

“All right,” he wheezed. “Maybe… maybe start smaller.”

---

The job interviews were uneventful.

Herbert sat across from a man in a plaid shirt and khaki pants at the local high school, filling out the standard application for the part-time custodian position. The man, who introduced himself as Mr. Finkel, spoke with the enthusiasm of someone who had been running the same hiring interviews for twenty years without a break.

“So, Mr. Smalls,” Mr. Finkel droned, glancing at the form. “Why do you want to work here?”

Herbert shifted in his seat. “I’m good with a mop.”

The man nodded slowly, as though this answer was entirely acceptable, before moving on to the next question about availability. Herbert tuned out slightly, his mind drifting back to the fences.

There was a chain-link fence on Cedar Avenue he’d been eyeing lately, and it posed a new challenge. It wasn’t as stable as the wooden ones, and it would require a different technique. Maybe a lighter step, or possibly more use of his hands for balance. He’d have to test it, maybe tomorrow, after his trip to the hardware store.

“Mr. Smalls?”

Herbert blinked, snapping back to the present. “Yes?”

“You’re available to start next week?”

“Uh… yeah. Sounds good.”

---

Later that afternoon, Herbert found himself back in training mode. The chain-link fence on Cedar Avenue was indeed trickier. It wobbled with every step, making him feel as though the ground itself was uncertain. But Herbert persevered, taking it one step at a time, his arms outstretched like some sort of amateur acrobat. He could feel the fence vibrating beneath him, each rattle sending a shockwave up through his legs. But that was part of the challenge.

“Balance, Herbert. It’s all about balance.”

As he neared the end of the fence, he decided to practice his explosive punches. After all, he had to keep his offense sharp.

Herbert clenched his fist, focusing on the sensation, the slight tingle that ran from his fingertips up to his forearm. He could feel the power, waiting, simmering just beneath the surface. With a deep breath, he swung.

BOOM.

The explosion sent him flying backward, though this time he was prepared. He tucked into a roll as he hit the ground, coming to a stop with a soft thud in someone’s front yard. The lawn was freshly mowed, the scent of cut grass filling his nostrils as he lay there, staring up at the sky.

“That… that was better,” he muttered to himself. “Getting the hang of it.”

---

Herbert’s days continued like this—a strange balance between job hunting and fence running. He had three more interviews that week: one as a part-time stocker at Bulk ‘n’ Save (they never called back), one as a delivery driver for Fred’s Floral Service (Herbert didn’t like the idea of navigating traffic with flowers), and another as a dishwasher at Sam’s Diner. None of them felt right, but that was okay. Herbert knew he’d find something soon. He always did.

In the meantime, he had more fences to conquer.

Each day, Herbert pushed himself further. He expanded his territory, moving beyond his neighborhood to new, unfamiliar fences. He found a tall, wrought-iron fence near the park, which provided an extra challenge due to its narrow rails. He even started experimenting with combining his running and explosive punches, launching himself from fence to fence with small bursts of energy.

And through it all, Herbert talked to himself.

“Gotta keep improving, Herbert. Can’t let up now.”

“Fence running’s just the beginning.”

“You’re getting faster. Stronger.”

“Bet those other heroes don’t train like this.”

It was absurd, of course. Herbert knew that. He was a man in his sixties, running on fences and punching the air like a madman. But it felt good. It felt right.

In a world where people could fly, turn invisible, or control the weather, Herbert Smalls was doing something no one else was: he was becoming The Fence Runner.

Other Side of the Fence

It had been a few weeks since Herbert Smalls began working as the part-time custodian at Briarwood High School. The work was everything he had hoped for—quiet, simple, and with just the right amount of physical labor to keep his hands busy and his mind from wandering too far. The floors, though worn from decades of students shuffling over them in cheap sneakers and the occasional pair of cowboy boots (why did kids still wear those?), were remarkably well maintained. He had a system for everything: sweeping in precise, overlapping arcs, mopping in a spiral pattern that ensured no spot was missed. Even the trash cans, each lined with a black plastic bag that emitted the faint smell of lemon-scented disinfectant, were positioned at exactly the same angle relative to the walls. He had measured it—25 degrees. Perfect for ease of access.

It was during one of these uneventful afternoons, as Herbert adjusted a particularly obstinate broom that refused to stay upright against the janitor’s closet wall (he suspected it had a warped handle, likely a defect from the factory), that the boys approached him.

They were a familiar group. Herbert had seen them before, lurking around the gymnasium, making the kind of loud, meaningless chatter that teenagers made when they didn’t have anything better to do. One of them had a habit of dribbling a basketball everywhere he went, the rhythm of the ball hitting the floor annoyingly inconsistent, like a bad jazz drummer who couldn’t keep tempo.

“Hey, man, that’s him,” the tall one with the backward baseball cap said, his voice carrying that mix of confidence and doubt that only came from a teenage boy who believed the world revolved around his every thought.

Herbert kept his head down, focusing on the task at hand—wiping down the handle of his mop with a rag he’d folded precisely three times. Folding it four times would have made it too thick, five times too bulky, but three was the optimal number for absorption and maneuverability.

“Nah, it’s just the janitor,” said another kid, this one shorter, with the kind of shaggy hair that Herbert imagined felt greasy to the touch. He didn’t like greasy things. The cafeteria’s fryers were greasy. They required extra effort, and Herbert always brought an additional rag specifically for those days. He had one for each type of spill. He was prepared for everything.

But the tall one wasn’t convinced. He stepped forward, basketball forgotten for a moment, and eyed Herbert with a smirk that was far too practiced for a boy his age. Herbert could sense the kid sizing him up, the way he narrowed his eyes in the same way you’d squint at a mismatched pair of socks you weren’t sure belonged together.

“Hey, aren’t you that guy?” the boy asked, his voice laced with that condescending curiosity that only comes when someone already knows the answer they’re fishing for. “You know, The Fence Runner?”

Herbert’s grip on the mop handle tightened—just a little. He felt it creak under the pressure, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound, but to Herbert, it was like a gong going off in his head. That noise meant something was bending, and bending meant breaking. And breaking meant fixing. He would have to address that later.

“You sure? ‘Cause I saw this dude the other day, running on fences and… I dunno, man, he was like… exploding stuff.” The kid mimed an explosion with his hands, wiggling his fingers like they were tiny fireworks. Herbert noted the poor form in the gesture—if you were going to mimic an explosion, you had to do it properly, with emphasis on the central burst, not the trailing sparks.

Herbert remained silent, mopping in slow, methodical strokes. Left, right. Left, right. The water in the bucket swirled in response to each dip, a faint ripple forming every time he squeezed the excess moisture from the mop head. He liked the rhythm of it. It was dependable.

The boys weren’t done, though. They never were. Teenage boys were like pigeons—they just kept pecking at you until you gave them a reason to scatter.

“Yeah, show us how you jump fences,” said another, this one chewing on a piece of gum far too aggressively for Herbert’s liking. He could hear the smacking, each pop of the bubble punctuating the end of their taunts.

Herbert glanced down at the mop water. It was a dull gray, swirling like a miniature hurricane trapped in a bucket. He needed to change it soon. Dirty water was ineffective for cleaning. You had to swap it out before it became a liability. Like everything else in life. When something got dirty, it was best to clean it up before it got worse.

“C’mon, Fence Runner,” the first boy goaded, stepping closer now, his sneakers squeaking on the tile floor. The squeak was high-pitched, like the whine of a loose fan belt on a poorly maintained car—irritating, persistent. “Let’s see you do your thing. Bet you can’t even jump anymore.”

The squeak. The chewing. The incessant mocking.

Herbert tried to focus on the mop. Left, right. Left, right. But the noise—oh, the noise—it was building in his head, layering over itself like an out-of-tune orchestra. The boys’ laughter, the creak of the mop handle, the squeaking shoes, and that chewing—that chewing.

He couldn’t take it.

Without warning, Herbert dropped the mop. It fell to the floor with a muted splat, the dirty water splashing out of the bucket, spreading across the tiles like a miniature flood.

He turned to face the boys, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. They had pushed him too far. They had crossed the line.

“You think this is funny?” Herbert’s voice was low, barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a man who had spent decades swallowing his frustrations.

The boys stopped laughing. The gum-chewer paused mid-chew, his jaw slackening as he realized something had shifted. The tall one took a step back, just a small one, but it was enough. They knew. They felt it.

“I said…” Herbert’s voice rose now, a tremor of rage threading through it. “You think this is funny?!”

Before they could answer, before they could utter another word, Herbert’s fist shot forward. He didn’t think, didn’t calculate the angle or force—it was pure instinct. The explosion that followed was immediate, a crack of thunder that reverberated down the hallway, shaking the lockers and causing a fire extinguisher to fall from its mount with a dull clang.

The boys were thrown backward as if they were rag dolls caught in a windstorm, crashing into the lockers with a series of metallic bangs. The gum-chewer’s gum flew out of his mouth mid-air, landing with a splat on the linoleum floor where it stuck, its fate now eternally sealed in the annals of custodial nightmares.

“YOU LEAVE HERBERT SMALLS ALONE!” Herbert shouted, his voice echoing through the now-silent hallway. His fists smoked from the explosion, the faint smell of burnt metal and singed hair filling the air.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the anger dissipated. Herbert blinked, his mind clearing like the smoke that swirled around him. He stared at the boys, now crumpled against the lockers, groaning in pain and clutching various limbs.

His fists unclenched. The weight of what had just happened began to sink in, the realization dawning on him like a slow-moving train you can’t avoid. He had hurt them. He had done that.

Herbert had done that.

His breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t meant to… but the name—his own name—it had just come out. He was The Fence Runner, not… not Herbert Smalls. But somehow, they were one and the same. And that thought terrified him.

Without another word, Herbert turned and ran. His shoes squeaked against the wet floor, though he barely noticed. The sound of his own heartbeat thudded in his ears, drowning out everything else.

---

He didn’t stop running until he reached the edge of town, the familiar fences standing tall in the fading light of the afternoon. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the wood, painting the neighborhood in soft, muted colors—browns and golds that reminded Herbert of autumn leaves and old books.

He stood in front of a fence, his breath coming in ragged gasps, sweat dripping from his forehead. He reached up to wipe it away with the back of his hand, but the sweat wasn’t just sweat—it was mixed with dirt and something else, something that smelled faintly of burnt wood. His hands still trembled, and his chest heaved, the adrenaline from the explosion still coursing through him.

But the fence—it was solid. It was real. Unlike the chaos of the school, unlike the noise and the confusion, the fence was dependable. The world felt too big, too unpredictable, but here, on the fence, Herbert felt small. And safe.

He climbed onto the fence, his movements slow but deliberate, each step as precise as the last. The wood creaked under his weight, but it held, as it always did.

“This is where I belong,” Herbert whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the soft rustling of the wind. “The fences… they understand.”

And so, Herbert ran. He ran along the fences, his feet moving in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic pattern. Each step was measured, deliberate, the sound of his shoes tapping lightly against the wood a steady beat in an otherwise chaotic world.

The fences didn’t judge him. They didn’t laugh, didn’t mock, didn’t ask him to be anyone other than who he was. Up here, on the fences, he was free.

Herbert Smalls was home.

Weight of a Quiet Life

Herbert Smalls sat on the small porch of his home, staring out into the stillness of the evening. The sirens in the distance were growing louder, but in his mind, they were just noise—distant, unimportant. His thoughts were elsewhere, stuck in the heavy, gray memories of a life spent alone. His hands rested on his knees, the skin wrinkled and calloused from decades of work, each line in his palm like a roadmap of the life he had lived. He had never thought much about his hands before, but now, in the quiet, they seemed to tell a story. A story of survival. A story of pain.

He had always been a man of few words, but that wasn’t how he’d started. As a child, Herbert had been talkative—perhaps too much so. He had asked questions, endless streams of them, hoping that someone might answer, might explain the world to him in a way that made sense. But no one had. His father, Harold Smalls, was not a man who entertained curiosity. Harold had been a big man—both in stature and in temper. His presence filled the house like a storm cloud, dark and brooding, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

Herbert had learned early on that questions were dangerous. He remembered the first time he had asked his father why their house was so cold in the winter. He had been no more than five or six, bundled up in a blanket that wasn’t quite warm enough, his small fingers gripping the edges tightly. His father had been sitting in his usual chair by the window, staring out at the street with a drink in hand, the smell of whiskey and old cigarettes hanging in the air.

“Why don’t we have a heater, Daddy?” Herbert had asked, his voice soft and innocent, the kind of voice that hadn’t yet learned to be afraid.

His father’s response had been swift. The back of Harold’s hand had struck Herbert across the face before he even had time to react. The sting of the blow was sharp, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as he stumbled backward. But it wasn’t the physical pain that stayed with Herbert. No, it was the look in his father’s eyes—cold, hard, and distant. The message was clear: Don’t ask questions. Don’t complain. Just endure.

From that day on, Herbert kept his questions to himself.

He grew up in a house that echoed with silence. His mother, Margaret, had been little more than a ghost in his life. She was there, physically, but emotionally? She was absent. Always distant, always retreating into her own world, never engaging with her son in any meaningful way. Herbert couldn’t remember a single moment of affection from her—no hugs, no comforting words, nothing to let him know that he mattered. She would sit at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the window as if waiting for something, though Herbert never knew what it was.

And then, one day, she was gone.

Herbert had been seven, and the day was etched into his memory like a scar. He had woken up to an unusually quiet house—no creaking floorboards, no clinking of dishes in the kitchen. He had wandered through the house, calling for her in his small, trembling voice, but there was no answer. Her room was empty, her closet half open with clothes missing, and her shoes no longer lined up neatly by the door. She had packed up her life in the dead of night and disappeared, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of her perfume and a gaping hole in Herbert’s world.

His father hadn’t seemed surprised. He’d simply poured another drink and muttered, “She’s gone. Get used to it.”

Herbert had gotten used to it. He had no choice.

And then there was his grandfather, a man who seemed to drift in and out of Herbert’s life with the same careless ease that he moved from one bar to the next. Old Mr. Smalls was a relic of another time, a man who believed in living life in the moment—though his moments mostly consisted of cheap whiskey and the fleeting company of women whose names he couldn’t remember. He would show up at their house sporadically, smelling of booze and stale tobacco, offering no real comfort or guidance, just the occasional pat on the head and a slurred story about “the good old days” that made little sense to Herbert.

There had been one night, when Herbert was about twelve, that his grandfather had stumbled into the house with more than just whiskey on his breath. He had brought with him a woman, younger than Herbert’s mother had been when she left, dressed in clothes that barely covered her skin. Herbert had watched from the hallway as his grandfather laughed, pulling the woman onto the couch, ignoring the fact that Herbert was standing there, watching, confused and uncomfortable.

That was the night Herbert had learned that family didn’t mean much. Not in his world. Family was just a word, an obligation at best. It wasn’t something you could rely on.

As Herbert grew older, the silence that had been forced upon him as a child became a part of who he was. He learned to keep his head down, to avoid drawing attention to himself, to endure the pain and the loneliness without complaint. He poured himself into his work at the golf course—his one constant, the one thing he could control. The grass, the sand traps, the rolling hills—they didn’t judge him. They didn’t mock him. They were simple, predictable, and they let him be.

But even that had been taken from him.

Now, here he was, in his sixties, sitting alone on his porch, a man with nothing and no one. No family. No friends. Just memories that weighed on him like a thousand-pound anchor, pulling him down into the depths of his own sadness. The world had moved on without him, and he had let it. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe this was his punishment for never being enough—for never asking questions, for never standing up, for always being the quiet man who let life happen to him.

And then there was Thunderstrike.

Herbert wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, though it did little to stop the tears from falling. Thunderstrike had been his hero, the one figure in his life who had seemed larger than the pain, larger than the sadness. Thunderstrike had represented everything Herbert wanted to believe in—a man who could fight back, who could stand up for the people who couldn’t stand up for themselves.

But Thunderstrike had been a lie, just like everything else.

Herbert remembered the day he learned the truth as if it had happened yesterday. He had been a teenager then, still holding onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—there was something good in the world. Thunderstrike had been on the news almost every night, a blur of blue and gold, saving lives, stopping crime, doing the things that Herbert wished he could do. Herbert had collected newspaper clippings, watched every interview, studied every move. He had believed in Thunderstrike.

And then, it had all come crashing down.

The news had broken in the most devastating way possible. Thunderstrike wasn’t just a hero—he was a monster too. He had a split personality, a darker half that emerged when no one was looking, undoing all the good he had done. By day, he was the savior of the city. By night, he was The Devastator, the very villain he had sworn to stop. He had destroyed half the city in a single rampage, his mind fractured beyond repair. In the end, there had been no choice but to put him down. A man as powerful as Thunderstrike couldn’t be contained, couldn’t be saved. The world had to end him before he ended it.

Herbert had been devastated. Thunderstrike was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be real. But in the end, he was just as broken as everyone else.

That was the day Herbert stopped believing in heroes.

Now, decades later, as he sat on his porch, the weight of those memories pressed down on him like a vice. He had spent his whole life running—from his past, from the pain, from the loneliness. But no matter how far he ran, it always caught up to him.

The sirens were closer now, their wail cutting through the night air, but Herbert barely registered them. He was too lost in the storm of his own mind, too consumed by the sadness and anger that had been building inside him for as long as he could remember.

His fists clenched, his knuckles white as he fought back the tears that continued to spill down his cheeks. He wiped his face again, harder this time, as if he could scrub away the years of pain and disappointment that had led him to this moment. But the tears kept coming, relentless, unforgiving.

Herbert wasn’t sure when the sadness turned to anger, but when it did, it hit him like a freight train. A slow, simmering rage that had been buried deep within him for years, decades even, now began to bubble to the surface, threatening to explode.

The sirens grew louder, their shrill cries echoing in his ears, but this time, they didn’t sound like noise. They sounded like a call—a call to action, a call to do something, to stop sitting on the sidelines of his own life.

He stood up slowly, his legs shaky, his breath heavy. The anger coursed through him now, hot and violent, filling the empty spaces inside him where the sadness had once been. He wasn’t sure who he was angry at—his father, his mother, his grandfather, Thunderstrike, the world itself—but it didn’t matter.

He had spent his whole life holding it in, swallowing his pain, keeping his head down, staying quiet.

But no more.

Herbert Smalls was done being quiet.

The sirens were just outside now, flashing red and blue lights casting long shadows across his lawn. He stared at them for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, his fists still clenched at his sides. He wiped the last of the tears from his eyes, his face hardening into something unrecognizable even to himself.

The sadness was gone.

All that was left was the anger.

The Fence Running.

And the world would pay attention.

Explosion of a Quiet Life

The flashing red and blue lights cast a surreal glow over Herbert Smalls’ modest front lawn, turning the faded, patchy grass into a landscape of pulsing shadows. Herbert stood at the edge of his porch, staring out at the spectacle like a man caught in a dream he hadn’t yet fully awoken from. His fingers twitched at his sides, not from fear, but from the simmering anger that had been building inside him for days—no, years. Maybe his whole life.

There were two police cruisers parked haphazardly along the curb, the doors open, and officers behind them, crouched slightly as if expecting a battle. The light from the streetlamp above them flickered at odd intervals, making the whole scene look like something from an old cop drama Herbert used to watch in the afternoons, back when TV hadn’t yet betrayed him with its cheap lies and empty heroes. Starsky & Hutch, maybe. Or was it Miami Vice? Didn’t matter. The whole world felt fake.

Two officers approached him cautiously, their shoes crunching softly on the gravel walkway Herbert had meticulously maintained for years. The gravel itself was a mix of quartz and river pebbles, hand-picked from a landscaping catalog in 1983. He remembered because it had taken him four days to decide on the exact type of gravel—he wanted something that was durable but also aesthetically pleasing, which, in hindsight, seemed an utterly absurd priority. Now, it was just one more thing the world didn’t notice.

“Sir, are you Herbert Smalls?” one of the officers called out, his voice tense but controlled. He had a strong jawline, one that looked like it had been sculpted by generations of stern ancestors. His name tag read Officer Phelps, and his uniform was a bit too crisp, the kind that suggested he spent too much time ironing it. His belt jangled slightly with all the assorted tools of authority hanging from it—handcuffs, baton, radio, and a shiny badge that reflected the flickering light like a disco ball at a very sad party.

Herbert stared at him, his fists still clenched at his sides. “Yeah,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “That’s me.”

The second officer, a younger woman with dark hair pulled into a tight bun, stood just behind Phelps. Her uniform was less crisp, more lived-in. Her name tag was tilted slightly, as if she had attached it in a hurry. Officer Garza, it read. She held her hand on her holster, but her fingers twitched, nervous energy radiating off her in waves. Herbert could sense it. It reminded him of the time he’d tried to paint his house by himself and had to give up halfway through because the ladder kept wobbling—instability.

“Mr. Smalls,” Officer Phelps continued, stepping forward but maintaining a cautious distance, “we need to ask you a few questions about some… incidents in the area.”

“Incidents?” Herbert’s voice was colder than he intended, but he wasn’t in the mood for polite conversation. “What incidents?”

Phelps exchanged a glance with Garza before responding. “We’ve received multiple reports of an individual matching your description involved in several… altercations around town. Explosions, to be precise.”

Herbert blinked. Explosions? Oh, right. The mugger. The fence running. The kids at the school. He’d forgotten how loud his punches had been.

“That so?” Herbert muttered, glancing at his fists, which, at the moment, looked harmless enough. Just old hands—worn, weathered, calloused from years of pushing lawnmowers and trimming hedges. But he knew better. He could feel the energy simmering beneath the surface, like a kettle that had been left on the stove just a little too long.

“Yes,” Phelps continued, his tone growing more authoritative. “There are strict regulations regarding the use of powers in public spaces. We’ve had reports of you… using some kind of explosive abilities without any form of identification or registration. That’s a violation of code 37-14 under the Municipal Powers Act.”

Herbert squinted at the officer. “Municipal Powers Act? What in the hell is that?”

Phelps sighed, clearly frustrated. “Mr. Smalls, everyone with powers is required by law to register. You’re using your abilities without authorization—without any supervision. It’s dangerous. You’ve injured several people. You’re putting the public at risk.”

Herbert tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “And what if I’m not interested in your damn registration? I didn’t ask for these powers. They just… happened.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Garza spoke up, her voice sharp but tinged with that nervousness she couldn’t quite hide. “You can’t just go around blowing things up. It doesn’t work like that.”

Herbert chuckled, a low, bitter sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. My whole life’s been about following rules. Keeping my head down. Not asking questions.” He clenched his fists tighter, feeling the familiar warmth in his knuckles, like the beginning of a fire waiting to ignite. “And where did that get me? Alone. Forgotten.”

Phelps took another cautious step forward. “Mr. Smalls, we understand you might be frustrated, but this isn’t the way to deal with it. We need you to come with us, peacefully. You’ll have a chance to explain everything downtown.”

Herbert didn’t respond immediately. His gaze flickered to the cruiser behind them, the lights still spinning in an almost hypnotic rhythm. He remembered the last time he had been in the back of a police car—back when he was twelve, after his father had been arrested for getting into a bar fight. The officers had been kind enough to drive Herbert home, but the looks they gave him—the pity in their eyes—it made him feel like something was wrong with him. Like he was defective.

He wasn’t going back into the back of a police car.

“Peacefully?” Herbert repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ve lived peacefully for sixty years. And what did it get me? Nothing.”

Phelps shifted slightly, clearly sensing the shift in the air. “Mr. Smalls, we don’t want this to escalate—”

But it was too late. Herbert’s anger, the years of pain, the loneliness, the frustration—it all boiled over in a single, powerful punch.

BOOM.

The explosion ripped through the air, sending a shockwave that knocked both officers back. Phelps stumbled, barely keeping his balance as the ground beneath him cracked from the force of the blast. Garza fell to the ground, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun, though she hesitated for a split second—long enough for Herbert to take another step forward.

“Mr. Smalls!” Phelps shouted, his voice shaking slightly, but trying to maintain control. “Stop! You’re making this worse!”

Herbert didn’t hear him. Or if he did, he didn’t care. His fists smoked from the explosion, the heat radiating from them like the sun had decided to live in his hands. He felt alive—more alive than he had in years.

“Put your hands up!” Garza barked, finally pulling her gun and pointing it at Herbert, her hands trembling slightly.

Herbert smirked, his eyes cold. “What are you gonna do? Shoot me?”

Without hesitation, Garza fired.

POP POP POP.

The bullets whizzed through the air, but by some strange twist of fate—or maybe just dumb luck—they missed. Every single one. Herbert felt the wind of them brush past his ears, but none made contact. They buried themselves in the wood of the porch behind him, sending small splinters into the air.

Herbert chuckled, a sound that was part disbelief, part exhilaration. “Guess luck’s on my side tonight.”

Phelps pulled his gun now, aiming it directly at Herbert, his face pale but determined. “Don’t make us do this, Smalls.”

Herbert stepped forward again, fists still smoking, eyes gleaming with a mixture of fury and defiance. The sirens blared louder, their wail piercing the night as more officers arrived, surrounding the house, lights flashing in every direction.

But Herbert wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.

He was The Fence Runner.

And no one was going to stop him.

The Candied Showdown

Hours had passed, but to Herbert Smalls, it felt like an eternity. The once-quiet street in front of his home was now a battlefield, a landscape of destruction. His front lawn—once his pride, meticulously maintained with edges trimmed to precise angles—was now a wasteland of craters, broken shrubs, and scorched earth. The quartz gravel, which he had painstakingly chosen after days of debating the balance between durability and aesthetics, was now scattered in every direction, pulverized by the relentless explosions.

Herbert stood in the middle of the chaos, his fists still smoking, his breath ragged. He could feel the exhaustion creeping in, his body aching from the strain of hours of combat. But his mind was still sharp, still buzzing with the adrenaline of the fight. He had faced wave after wave of police, their tactical squads moving in with precision, armed with everything from riot shields to beanbag shotguns. They had thrown everything at him—tear gas, flashbangs, rubber bullets—but his explosive fists had sent them flying time and time again.

And now, just when Herbert thought he might have a moment to catch his breath, the real trouble arrived.

A low, rumbling hum echoed through the street, and Herbert squinted against the flashing lights to see a massive armored vehicle rolling into view. It was unlike anything the regular police had deployed—this was military-grade, built for one purpose: to neutralize people like him. People with powers. And standing at the helm of this bizarre unit was the most bizarre thing Herbert had seen all night.

Candy Mandy.

Herbert blinked a few times, wondering if his exhaustion was playing tricks on him, but no—there she was, stepping out of the vehicle with an air of absurd confidence, her pastel uniform shimmering under the streetlights. She looked like someone had raided a child’s birthday party and turned the decorations into battle armor. Her tight curls were an impossible shade of bubblegum pink, and her cape—was it a cape?—fluttered dramatically behind her as if she were some twisted parody of a superhero. But what caught Herbert’s eye most of all, oddly enough, were her hands. They were small. Unnaturally small. Too small for her body, like they belonged on a doll and not on an adult woman leading a specialized combat unit.

“Herbert Smalls,” she called out, her voice a sickly-sweet sing-song that grated on Herbert’s already frayed nerves. “I’ve been hearing about you all night. You’ve been very naughty.”

Herbert stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or explode something. “Who the hell are you supposed to be? And what’s wrong with your hands?”

Candy Mandy’s eyes flicked to her hands—those ridiculously small hands—and then back to Herbert with a playful grin. “Oh, you noticed? Aren’t they cute? I always say, small hands, big surprises!” She wiggled her fingers in the air like she was conducting some invisible candy orchestra.

Herbert grimaced. Something about the way her tiny hands moved—it was unsettling. They seemed out of proportion, like a magician’s trick gone wrong. He found himself momentarily distracted, watching her hands instead of paying attention to the rest of her, and that’s when things started to get weird.

With a flourish, Candy Mandy twirled the oversized lollipop she had been holding like a baton. As it spun, the air around her shimmered, bending and warping until the world itself began to change. The cracked pavement beneath Herbert’s feet softened, turning into something sticky and pliable. He lifted his boot and saw it was sinking into what looked like pink taffy, stretching out in long, elastic strings as he tried to pull free.

“Welcome to Candyland, Herbert!” Candy Mandy announced with a dramatic sweep of her arms—those weirdly small hands moving in a way that shouldn’t have been as graceful as it was.

Herbert glanced around, trying to take in the scene. His front yard had transformed into a pastel-colored nightmare. The shrubs that lined his walkway were now sprouting gumdrops the size of basketballs, and the tree in the corner of his yard had turned into a towering licorice monstrosity, its twisted branches dripping with strands of red and black licorice. The air smelled sickeningly sweet, like the inside of a candy factory that had somehow come alive and decided to turn against humanity.

The ground itself was sticky, and Herbert could feel it pulling at his boots with every step. But despite the bizarre surroundings, his focus kept drifting back to Candy Mandy’s hands. They were just so small. How was she holding that giant lollipop with hands like that? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t right.

“Mr. Smalls!” Candy Mandy’s voice jolted him back to the present. “You’ve been causing quite a mess, haven’t you? Blowing things up, hurting people. That’s not very nice.”

Herbert scowled, trying to ignore the way her fingers curled around the lollipop handle like some kind of sinister marionette. “I’m not the one turning the world into a candy-coated nightmare.”

Candy Mandy laughed—a high-pitched giggle that felt like nails on a chalkboard. “Oh, Herbert, it’s just my little playground. A place for fun, for sweets! But for you, well, I think it’ll be more of a… punishment.“

With a snap of her fingers—those impossibly small fingers—the candy world came to life. Giant gummy bears emerged from the shrubs, their beady little eyes glistening with an unnatural intelligence as they lumbered toward Herbert. Jellybeans the size of bowling balls rumbled across the ground, ricocheting off the taffy-covered pavement like deadly candy projectiles. The air itself seemed to shimmer with the scent of sugar, thick and suffocating.

Herbert braced himself, his fists clenched. He was tired—bone tired—but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

The first gummy bear lunged at him, its gelatinous body jiggling obscenely as it swung a meaty paw in his direction. Herbert ducked, narrowly avoiding the swipe, and with a growl of frustration, he let loose an explosive punch.

BOOM.

The gummy bear exploded in a shower of sticky goo, splattering across the yard like some demented birthday cake gone wrong. But before Herbert could catch his breath, another bear was upon him, followed by a hail of jellybeans bouncing across the taffy ground.

Herbert dodged, his boots sticking with every step, making each movement slower and more labored. He threw another punch—BOOM—and then another, but for every gummy bear he destroyed, more seemed to take its place.

Meanwhile, Candy Mandy stood off to the side, watching the chaos unfold with a delighted smile, her tiny hands clasped in front of her like she was enjoying a particularly entertaining carnival game. “Aren’t they sweet?” she called out, her voice dripping with false innocence. “My little gummy soldiers. Oh, and just wait until you meet the licorice whips!”

Herbert grunted as he punched another gummy bear into oblivion, sweat pouring down his face. His fists were aching now, each explosion taking more out of him than the last. But it wasn’t just the exhaustion that was getting to him—it was those damn hands. He couldn’t stop thinking about them. Why were they so small? How did she hold that lollipop so easily? It was distracting, pulling his focus away from the battle at hand.

As if reading his mind, Candy Mandy twirled her lollipop again, the motion smooth and effortless despite the disproportionate size of her hands. “You like my hands, Herbert? You keep looking at them. So dainty, aren’t they?”

Herbert scowled, wiping sweat from his brow. “They’re… wrong.”

Candy Mandy’s smile widened. “Oh, Herbert, there’s so much wrong with the world. But at least my candy makes it all… sweet.”

Before Herbert could respond, the licorice whip lashed out—long, black, and impossibly fast. It coiled around his arm with a sickening snap, tightening like a snake ready to strike. Herbert gritted his teeth, feeling the sticky, pliable licorice dig into his skin, and with a roar of fury, he swung his free hand toward the whip, unleashing another explosive punch.

BOOM.

The licorice shattered, sending fragments flying in every direction, but the force of the explosion knocked Herbert off balance. He stumbled backward, his boots catching in the taffy ground, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he thought he might fall—fall into this sickeningly sweet nightmare and never get up again.

But he couldn’t let that happen. Not here. Not like this.

With a surge of determination, Herbert steadied himself and charged forward, ignoring the sticky ground, the jellybeans, the gummy bears—ignoring everything but Candy Mandy.

She didn’t seem worried. She twirled her lollipop, those infuriatingly small hands dancing around it like she was conducting an orchestra, and with another flick of her wrist, she sent a wall of candy canes spiraling toward him.

Herbert ducked under the candy canes, dodging another licorice whip as it cracked the air beside him, and with a final burst of strength, he reached Candy Mandy.

Her eyes widened in surprise—just for a moment—before Herbert grabbed her by the arm. Her skin was cold, sticky, like touching melted caramel, and Herbert’s grip tightened as he swung her toward the shrubs that had once lined his walkway.

With a guttural roar, he hurled her into the bushes.

CRACK.

The sound was final—sickeningly so. The once-vibrant world of candyland shimmered, flickered, and then collapsed, the pastel nightmare crumbling into nothingness. The gumdrops, the licorice, the taffy—it all dissolved, leaving behind only the cracked, scorched earth of Herbert’s ruined front yard.

Candy Mandy lay still, half-buried in the broken shrubs, her small hands motionless, the lollipop rolling away from her like a discarded toy.

Herbert stumbled back, gasping for breath, his vision swimming. His fists—those hands that had once been so ordinary—now felt like dead weight at his sides. The world around him spun, the exhaustion hitting him like a tidal wave.

He fell to his knees beside the destroyed shrubs, his body trembling from the fight, his heart pounding in his chest. The sirens—those damn sirens—still wailed in the distance, but they felt far away now, like they were part of a different world.

His vision blurred as he collapsed beside Candy Mandy’s still form, the ground cold beneath him, the night sky spinning above.

Was this it?

Was this the end of The Fence Runner?

Herbert didn’t know.

But as his eyes fluttered shut, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever see the top of a fence again.

Storm Watcher

Louis Jones sat at his desk, staring at the holographic map that hovered a few inches above the surface. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the walls of the underground facility, each shadow dancing faintly with the soft glow of blue light emanating from the map. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him, and exhaled a slow, measured breath. His eyes, sharp and calculating, traced the series of glowing dots that dotted the map, each one representing a flare-up, an incident, a disturbance. The world, it seemed, had gone mad, though it was difficult to pinpoint exactly when that had happened.

The world is always in chaos, he mused, a phrase that had become a mantra for him over the years. The question is whether anyone notices.

For Louis Jones, chaos was a constant companion. It was part of the job—part of the world that existed beneath the surface, hidden from the public eye, operating in the shadows. He was part of the Deep State, an organization that technically didn’t exist, working in a facility that officially wasn’t there. His team, composed of men and women like him—faceless, nameless, and essential—monitored the strange, the dangerous, the unexplainable.

And right now, the unexplainable was becoming all too common.

Jones narrowed his eyes at the largest cluster of glowing dots on the map: a small town nestled in the Midwest, unremarkable by most standards, but currently the epicenter of a series of bizarre incidents. The town of Crayton had gone from quiet to catastrophe in a matter of weeks, with reports of superpowered individuals wreaking havoc, local law enforcement overwhelmed, and civilians caught in the crossfire.

His fingertips brushed the surface of the desk, and the map zoomed in, revealing even more details about Crayton. Property damage was off the charts. Explosions had been reported almost daily. There had been rumors of a man with the ability to conjure storms, another who could levitate cars with his mind, and some sort of shadow creature terrorizing the outskirts. But none of that had bothered Jones.

Until now.

He tapped the corner of the map again, pulling up a series of video feeds. Security cameras, drone footage, police body cams—all feeding into a singular stream of chaos. Louis leaned forward, his gaze flicking from one image to the next, trying to make sense of it all. The footage was shaky in places, distorted in others, but the pattern was there. It wasn’t the usual chaos of a world filled with superpowered people struggling to find their place. This was different. More focused.

And then, there was the man. The one that had started showing up in reports more frequently over the past few days. A man in his sixties, dressed in torn, worn-out clothes, with fists that exploded with the force of a grenade. Herbert Smalls, they had called him.

Jones had seen men like Herbert before. Ordinary people pushed too far, finding themselves on the wrong side of extraordinary power. Most of them didn’t last long. The power would consume them, or they’d lose control and end up in one of the Deep State’s many “facilities”—places where people with powers went to disappear.

But Herbert was different. The reports coming in weren’t just about a man who could punch through walls. They were about a man who had spent his entire life bottled up, suppressing something, only for it to explode out of him in the most literal sense.

Jones watched as the footage from earlier in the night played on the screen. It was body cam footage from one of the first responding officers—a young cop who had clearly been unprepared for what he encountered. The video was grainy, the camera shaking as the officer approached Herbert’s home. The next few seconds were chaos—a bright flash, the crack of an explosion, and the camera feed cutting out.

More footage followed—drones circling overhead, capturing Herbert as he fought off wave after wave of police. Explosions rocked the neighborhood, sending debris flying in every direction. The man moved like someone possessed, his fists a blur of light and destruction. But it wasn’t just the power that interested Jones. It was the man himself—the way he moved, the way he fought. He wasn’t just lashing out randomly. There was a method to it. A purpose. Even as the world around him fell apart, there was something calculated in Herbert’s actions.

Interesting, Jones thought, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk.

The world had always been a mess, ever since the rise of superpowers. When powers first started showing up—decades ago—people had been excited. Superheroes, they called them, the saviors of a new age. But that golden age had passed. Now, powers were just part of the everyday chaos. Heroes were corporate brands, supervillains were reality TV fodder, and ordinary people tried to go about their lives pretending none of it mattered.

But Jones knew better. He had been around long enough to see what really happened beneath the surface. The Deep State had been created to handle situations just like this—to step in when things went too far, when powers threatened to tip the balance too much. The world could survive a little chaos, but there were limits. And men like Herbert Smalls? They pushed those limits.

Jones tapped another button, pulling up the latest reports from Crayton. The anti-power unit had been dispatched, and they had done their job. Candy Mandy—the head of the unit—had been taken down, killed in some bizarre altercation with Smalls. Jones had read her file—knew that her power allowed her to conjure reality from candy, a bizarre but effective ability. And she had been taken down by a sixty-year-old man with explosive fists.

The final video feed began playing, showing the aftermath of the battle. Herbert lay in a heap, half-buried in the scorched remains of his front yard, just beside what looked like a shattered shrub. Candy Mandy’s body lay nearby, her signature pastel uniform smeared with dirt, the once bright colors now dulled. It was a mess.

But Herbert was alive.

Jones sat back in his chair, folding his hands together—those large, sturdy hands that had handled more covert operations than he cared to remember. He watched the footage again, this time focusing on the small details. The way Herbert’s fists still smoked, even after he had collapsed. The way his body twitched slightly, like there was still some fight left in him.

Jones had seen people like Herbert before. Ordinary men with extraordinary power. They were dangerous, unpredictable, and—if they weren’t careful—they became liabilities. And the Deep State had ways of dealing with liabilities.

A knock at the door pulled Jones from his thoughts. He glanced up, watching as a young agent entered, carrying a tablet with more updates.

“Sir,” the agent said, his voice professional but tinged with urgency, “we’ve received confirmation. The man with the explosive fists—Herbert Smalls—has been recovered. He’s unconscious, but alive. They’re bringing him in now.”

Jones nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. So, the old man wasn’t done yet. There was still more to this story. More to unravel. He watched the final moments of the footage again, the explosions, the chaos, the way Herbert had fought like a man possessed. There was something about him—something different from the others.

Jones leaned back in his chair, tapping the armrest thoughtfully, and then, in a low voice, he muttered, “This old boy is storming.”

The agent glanced at Jones, confused by the statement, but didn’t ask for clarification. Instead, he handed Jones the tablet and quietly exited the room, leaving Jones alone with the chaos on the screen.

Jones stared at the map of Crayton again, the glowing dots still flashing in their chaotic dance. The world was in turmoil, as it always had been. But now, there was a new storm on the horizon.

And its name was Herbert Smalls.

Prologue: Brassvale Nights

The city was Brassvale, but nobody called it that. Everyone around here called it Blenc. Some said it was short for “blend,” because it blended broken dreams with broken people. Others swore it was a bastardization of an old factory name long since boarded up. Whatever the truth, the name stuck like the smog that clung to its streets.

For seven-year-old Jahnny, Blenc was all he’d ever known. His world was a patchwork of cracked pavement, rusted streetlights that flickered more than they shone, and towering buildings that seemed to lean in on themselves as if tired of standing. Even in the daylight, the city looked like it was in a permanent state of dusk, shadows stretched long across graffiti-covered walls.

That evening, Jahnny was outside on the stoop with his older sister, Lila, who had just turned nine. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest, chewing on her thumbnail while Jahnny flipped a busted baseball in his hand. “Think this used to belong to someone famous?” he asked, holding the scuffed-up ball toward her.

Lila glanced at it and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, probably Dave Swoot’s. He left it here just for you.”

“Maybe he did,” Jahnny said with a grin. He tossed the ball against the stoop wall and caught it on the rebound. Behind them, the faint crack of a bat hitting a bottle rang out from the alley, where neighborhood kids were playing their own version of baseball. Jahnny could hear their laughter and cheers, but he didn’t join them. His mother had told him to stay close. “Don’t want you getting caught up with the wrong crowd,” she’d said, though to Jahnny, everyone in Blenc felt like the wrong crowd.

“Mom said to come inside before it gets dark,” Lila muttered. “You know how Dad gets.”

Jahnny shrugged. “He’s not home yet.”

“That’s the problem,” Lila said, her voice quieter this time. She stood up and brushed dirt off her patched jeans. “C’mon.”

Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of burnt toast and baby powder. The kitchen felt smaller every time Jahnny stepped into it. The wallpaper sagged in long, curling strips, revealing water stains that spread like the cracks in their lives. Near the sink, a steady drip echoed through the room, each drop landing in a chipped ceramic mug left to catch the leak.

Clara sat slouched on the couch in the adjacent room, flipping through a magazine she’d read a hundred times before. Her chipped nail polish and the magazine’s frayed edges were both fading testaments to things that once mattered more. At thirteen, Clara barely lived at home anymore. She spent most nights at her boyfriend’s place—“friend” being a generous word for a guy in his thirties who sold car parts out of his garage.

Marie was in the kitchen, bouncing the youngest of the siblings, little Betsy, on her hip. Betsy had just turned one last week, though there hadn’t been much of a celebration. A store-bought cupcake with a single candle was all they could afford. Jahnny had eaten half of it when Betsy got distracted, her baby teeth struggling with the frosting.

“Jahnny, wash your hands before you sit at the table,” Marie said, her voice weary but steady. She was sitting in the corner chair, her blouse unbuttoned just enough to let Betsy nurse. Her face was drawn tight with exhaustion, and though her dark curls were pinned back, loose strands framed her face in disheveled chaos. One hand supported the baby, while the other absentmindedly rubbed at a stain on her faded apron, a futile effort against years of wear and tear.

Jahnny sighed and headed to the bathroom. The faucet sputtered to life, spitting out cold water in uneven bursts. He rubbed the grime off his hands and dried them on his jeans, knowing better than to waste one of the few clean towels.

By the time he got back, Garth had stumbled through the front door. Jahnny froze in the hallway as the familiar sound of his father’s boots thudded against the worn floorboards. “Marie!” Garth barked, his voice already slurred. “Where’s the money?”

“In the rent jar, where it always is,” Marie replied sharply, without missing a beat.

“That jar’s got nothin’ in it but pennies,” Garth snapped. “I need real money. Not this kid crap.”

“That’s all that’s left,” Marie said, setting Betsy down in the playpen. “You gambled away the rest, remember?”

“What’d you say to me?” Garth’s voice dropped, low and dangerous.

Jahnny could see his mother’s back from where he stood, straight and unyielding. She didn’t flinch. “I said you gambled it away. We got nothing left, Garth. Nothing.”

“You think you’re better than me?” he snarled, stepping closer.

Jahnny didn’t realize Lila was standing behind him until she grabbed his arm and tugged him toward their shared bedroom. “Come on,” she whispered.

Clara didn’t follow. She stayed on the couch, arms crossed, glaring at their father with a boldness that made Jahnny’s stomach twist. He wanted to tell her to stop, to come with them and stay quiet. But he didn’t say a word.

Once inside the bedroom, Jahnny flopped onto the mattress he shared with Lila. She sat down next to him, hugging her knees to her chest. “I hate him,” she whispered.

“You shouldn’t say that,” Jahnny mumbled, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“He’s a waste of space,” Lila said, louder this time. “Mom would be better off without him.”

The words stung, even if Jahnny couldn’t disagree. Still, he hated hearing anyone talk about their dad like that. Even if Garth was mean and loud and drank too much, he was still their dad. And some part of Jahnny still wanted to believe he could be better.

The yelling from the kitchen rose to a fever pitch before cutting off abruptly. Jahnny held his breath, waiting for what came next. But instead of a crash or a slap, there was only the sound of boots stomping toward the door.

It slammed shut behind Garth, leaving an uneasy silence in its wake.

---

Much later, after the apartment had sunk into its usual uneasy silence, Jahnny slipped out onto the fire escape. The metal was icy under his hands, biting his palms as he pulled himself up. He perched on the edge, cross-legged, his thin frame silhouetted against the weak orange glow of the streetlights below and invisible from the railways that ran the city’s higher sections.

The skyline of Blenc stretched out before him, a jagged silhouette of crumbling rooftops and leaning smokestacks. Above it all, the stars tried to shine through the choking smog. Jahnny squinted, trying to count them, but they flickered like dying embers, faint and fragile.

“What’s the point of making wishes,” he muttered to himself, “when the stars can barely breathe?”

Behind him, the window creaked open, and Lila’s voice broke through the quiet. “You’ll catch a cold out here.”

Jahnny didn’t turn around. “Do you think they can hear us?” he asked, pointing at the stars. “If we wished for something?”

Letting out a sigh, Lila sat beside him, tucking her knees to her chest. She didn’t answer right away. “Maybe,” she said softly. “But I don’t think they’re listening to people like us.”

“Yeah, but what if they do?” Jahnny pressed.

Lila hugged herself, her voice quieter now. “Then I’d wish Dad never came back.”

Jahnny didn’t reply. He just stared at the stars, his tiny fingers gripping the edge of the fire escape until his knuckles whitened. {I don’t care about wishes,} he muttered in the back of his mind. {Wisehs don’t do nothin’. I just… I just want to be strong enough to make this stop.}

The thought hit him like a punch to the chest. For the first time, he realized he didn’t just want someone else to fix things—not his mom, not Garth, not even some invisible star in the sky. He wanted to be the one who could stop the pain. Even if it meant becoming someone he didn’t recognize. Nobody in Blenc could ever hurt his family again.

Chapter 1: The Streets

Jahnny tightened the frayed laces on his too-small sneakers, his knobby knees poking out from holes in his jeans as he crouched on the cracked pavement. The alley behind their apartment building in Brassvale smelled like oil, damp cardboard, and something sour he tried not to think about. A few neighborhood kids dashed by, their laughter bouncing off the graffiti-covered walls, but Jahnny stayed where he was, focused on his game of stickball with Lila.

“Quit hoggin’ the ball, Jahnny,” Lila hollard, her hands on her hips and her face set in the same mock-serious expression their mom used when lecturing them. Her brown curls, tied back in a messy ponytail, bounced as she stomped one foot, a movement that would’ve been intimidating if she weren’t so small. Offering him a look of annoyance in the way only a big sister could. Lila was eleven now, practically a grown-up in her own mind, and not afraid to remind Jahnny of it.

Jahnny smirked, tossing the taped-up ball in the air and catching it with exaggerated ease. “Not my fault you can’t hit.”

“I can hit,” Lila shot back, snatching up their makeshift bat—a splintered broomstick that had seen better days. “I’m just waiting for you to actually pitch like a pro instead of like a baby.”

“Alright, fine,” Jahnny said, mimicking the windup he’d seen on TV in the laundromat window. “Here comes the heater!” He hurled the ball, and with a resounding crack, Lila sent it soaring over the dumpster and bouncing into the street.

“Home run!” she screamed, throwing her hands in the air. Jahnny stared in shock before breaking into laughter.

“That wasn’t fair,” he said, though he was grinning. “The dumpster’s too close!”

“Excuses, excuses,” Lila teased, as Jahnny gave a smirk before sprinting towards the street to retrieve the ball, dodging piles of trash and—

~HOOUUNK!!~

Lila gasped as Jahnny just barely skidded to a stop before a car, falling to his knees at the last second, it’s horn forcing them both to jump, leaving Jahnny to grab his stomach as the car didn’t bother to stop, instead speeding off faster than he came.

The distant shouting of the driver didn’t bother Jahnny, most people in the city yelled. After a moment to catch his breath, he retrieved the ball and looked back to his sister, sticking his tongue at her in play-mockery, holding it up like a trophy.

“Was almost as dangerous as your swing,” he said, tossing the ball to Lila as he returned.

She snickered. “Better dangerous than boring.”

With a puckish smile cutting across his face, Jahnny looked around, the thought of the park he would occasionally sneak off to crossing his mind for a moment before asking, “You wanna do something really dangerous?”

Looking back to her brother, Lila paused and gave a light laugh as he exaggeratedly walked out of the alley, similar to how people in old cartoons would sneak around, on their tiptoes, waving for her to follow.

---

Wandering down the block, their feet dragging on the cracked and uneven sidewalk. The dim glow of streetlights cast long, flickering shadows, and the air carried the familiar smells of the Brassvale slums—burnt grease, damp concrete, and a faint whiff of something metallic that Jahnny had never been able to place.

The old park loomed ahead, its rusted fence half-swallowed by weeds. Jahnny slowed his steps, his eyes scanning the empty space. The swings hung limp, their chains twisted like nooses in the wind. The slide, once gleaming silver, was scarred with graffiti—angry slashes of thick letters spelling gang names and curses he didn’t yet understand.

A single tire swing dangled from a splintered tree at the park’s edge. It swayed gently, its rope frayed and ready to snap. Jahnny wondered if it would break under someone’s weight, or if it would simply hang there forever, forgotten.

Actually, it was fairly similar to their recently departed alley. Still, it was better than sitting on their stoop, waiting for Garth to come up with another excuse to yell or being confined to their closet-sized walkway where their ball would occasionally drift into traffic, one time even busting a windshield, though luckily their neighbor took the fall for that one as they had just tossed a remote out the window, also hitting the car.

His gaze lingered on the remains of a merry-go-round in the far corner, its paint chipped and peeling. It creaked softly in the breeze, spinning in slow, uneven circles—like a memory of joy that refused to stay still.

“Let’s sit over there,” Lila suggested, pointing to a rusted bench near the edge of the park. Jahnny nodded, though his eyes darted to the small cluster of men loitering near the basketball court. Their voices were low, their movements sharp, and even at nine years old, Jahnny knew what they were doing. Everyone in Brassvale did.

They sat side by side, Lila with a knee pulled up to her chest, the other kicking under her, and Jahnny fidgeting with the tennis ball in his hands. The night was quiet for a moment, save for the creak of the swings swaying in the breeze and the occasional muffled laugh from the men by the court.

“You think it was always like this?” Jahnny asked, gesturing to the park.

“What do you mean?” Lila tilted her head.

“Like…messed up. Do you think it was nice before?”

Lila shrugged. “I guess. Mom says things used to be different in Brassvale. Before people started moving away and the gangs took over.”

Jahnny squinted at the men by the court. “Why don’t they fix it?”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Lila asked, her tone skeptical.

“I dunno,” Jahnny admitted. “Like…grown-ups. The mayor or something.”

Lila snorted. “The mayor don’t care about people like us.”

Jahnny didn’t know what to say to that. He bounced the ball against the pavement, letting the rhythm fill the silence before a shout broke the quiet causing both kids to tense. One of the men from the court was walking toward them. He was tall, lanky, with a mean smirk filled with gold, a typical grille, and a cigarette dangling from his lips, it’s ash desperately hanging on.

“What you kids doin’ out so late?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes lingered on Lila, the type of look that the guys that hung around their apartment would give Clara growing up and it made his stomach tighten.

“We’re not botherin’ nobody,” Lila said quickly, her arms wrapping protectively around her knees as she pulled her second up in a defensive posture.

The man chuckled, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Didn’t say you were, sweetheart. Just curious.” His gaze swept over her, and Jahnny felt his hands ball into fists.

“Leave her alone,” Jahnny said, standing up. His voice shook, but he planted his feet firmly, letting the ball fall under the bench they were on.

The man raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, we got ourselves a tough guy, huh?”

“Jahnny, don’t,” Lila whispered, grabbing his arm.

“Yeah, listen to your sister,” the man said, taking a step closer. “You’re a little young to be playin’ hero.”

“Just leave us alone!” Jahnny snapped. His face burned, but he refused to back down.

The man’s smirk faded, replaced by a scowl. “You got a big mouth for a little kid.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground and moved so fast Jahnny barely saw it coming. The first shove knocked him off balance, and he stumbled backward, his knees scraping against the pavement.

“Hey, man, they’re just kids,” one of the other dealers called from the court, though he made no move to intervene.

“Shut up, Eddie,” the man growled before turning back to Jahnny. “You think you’re smart, huh? Think you’re gonna save the day?”

Jahnny scrambled to his feet and swung his fist wildly, hitting the man’s stomach. It felt like punching a wall, and the man barely flinched. A sharp slap across the face sent Jahnny sprawling to the ground, his cheek stinging and hot tears welling up in his eyes.

“Jahnny!” Lila cried, moving to help him, but the man shoved her back.

“You wanna mess with me, huh?” the man sneered, looming over Jahnny. “This ain’t no fairy tale, kid. You’re in Brassvale, where you either have the brass,” he said grabbing Jahnny by the collar and raising an arm. “Or you’re sent to the veil!” he whispered through a voice that one would assume could only come from a dimen before slamming his fist into Jahnny’s cheek, clicking his teeth and sending his face into the pavement they stood on with a sickening crack.

“Hey!” A shout came from the court, louder this time. One of the other men started walking over, his hands raised. “Chill, Dee. They’re just kids, man.”

Dee snorted but backed off, spitting on the back of Jahnny’s head as he chocked on tears but manged not to let out a scream. “Keep your punk ass outta my face,” he muttered before walking back to the court, hands in his pockets and taking wide steps, as if to show dominance over the court itself.

Lila helped Jahnny to his feet, her hands shaking. “Are you okay?”

Jahnny nodded, wiping the tears and snot from his face, though his head throbbed and his cheek felt like it was on fire. “I’m fine.” He shakily let out, knowing he couldn’t show his sister that all he wanted to do was cry. Scream. Cry until his eyes fell out of his head and the only wetness to escape them was the blood from their sockets.

“No, you’re not,” Lila said, her voice breaking. “You’re stupid, Jahnny. Why’d you do that?”

He shrugged, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand a few more times, trying his best to hold back his feelings. “He was bein’ a jerk.”

“You could’ve gotten us both hurt,” she said, but her tone was softer now, more scared than angry.

They sat back down on the bench, Lila getting the ball back and giving it to Jahnny who hugged it tightly to his chest. The men at the court seemed to lose interest in them, returning to their hushed conversations.

“I hate this place,” Lila said quietly, and for once, Jahnny didn’t have a comeback. He hated it too.

---

The walk home was quieter than usual. Lila stuck close to Jahnny, nearly tripping on him occasionally, glancing at him every so often as if to make sure he wasn’t going to collapse. His cheek still throbbed, his lip was split, so was his cheek which was now puffed up and purpleing, but he refused to let her see him cry. The night air was cold now, the kind that bit through their thin clothes, and Jahnny shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

The streets weren’t much safer than the park. Figures loitered on stoops or shuffled through alleys, their shadows long and menacing under the dim streetlights. Lila kept her head down, and Jahnny mimicked her, though his fists stayed clenched. He wasn’t sure who he was angrier at—the man who hit him or himself for being too small to do anything about it.

When they finally reached their apartment building, the door creaked loudly as Lila pushed it open. The stairwell smelled like mildew and expired milk, and the paint was peeling in long strips from the walls. They climbed the stairs to their unit, Lila two steps ahead as Jahnny trudged behind.

The faint sound of the baby crying filtered through the door before they even opened it. Marie’s voice followed, a tired hush trying to soothe the wails.

“Don’t slam it,” Lila whispered as she turned the knob gently.

Inside, the apartment was dimly lit, with the flicker of an old lamp in the corner. Marie sat on the couch, baby Betsy cradled in her arms, her shirt unbuttoned as the infant nursed. Lila hesitated before closing the door softly behind them.

Marie glanced up, bags the side of softballs under both eyes from the late nights, jumping between the paperwork of her job and dealing with the baby and making sure clothes and food are taken care of for Clara, Lila, and Jahnny. “You’re late,” she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. “Dinner’s almost cold.”

“Sorry, Mama,” Lila said quickly, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. “I got a homerun, though! Jahnny pitched it, and I smacked it right out of the lot.”

Marie smiled faintly. “Good for you, Lila. Maybe we got ourselves a baseball star in the making.”

Lila beamed and scooted into the kitchen to grab a plate. Jahnny stayed near the door, still scowling, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Jahnny, you gonna eat?” Marie asked, her voice steady but with an edge that meant she didn’t have time for nonsense.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, his eyes on the scuffed floor.

Marie frowned, adjusting Betsy in her arms. “What’s with the attitude?”

“No attitude,” Jahnny mumbled, his face burning, the swelling making it hard to fully speak.

Marie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like lies, Jahnny. You better straighten up and tell me what’s going on.”

Jahnny shrugged, his anger bubbling over. “Nothin’. It’s always nothin’, right?”

The words stung Marie, and she shifted Betsy to her other arm, her expression hardening. “Alright, mister, you’re done for tonight. Go to your room.”

Lila stopped mid-bite, her eyes darting between them. “Mama—”

“Hush, Lila,” Marie said firmly. “Jahnny knows better than to talk to me like that.”

“But—”

“Go. To. Your. Room,” Marie repeated, her voice a low warning.

Jahnny’s jaw clenched, and he stomped toward the small bedroom he shared with Lila and their older sister, Clara, though Clara was rarely home these days. The door slammed behind him, and he flopped onto the worn mattress on the floor, staring up at the cracked, smoke stained ceiling.

In the kitchen, Lila toyed with her fork, her earlier excitement about the game gone. “Mama, it’s not his fault.”

Marie sighed and leaned back against the couch, Betsy now fast asleep in her arms. “I know, Lila,” she said softly, her voice losing its earlier sharpness. “But we ain’t got the food to waste on a kid who’s gonna backtalk me.”

“But he’s not—”

“Lila,” Marie interrupted, her tone weary. “I don’t need excuses. I just need peace.”

Jahnny lay in the dark, listening to the faint sounds of the apartment amid their softer conversation, knowing he was always the last to get things if they didn’t have enough—Betsy’s soft coos, the scrape of Lila’s fork on her plate, the creak of Marie’s footsteps. His stomach growled, but he ignored it, his anger keeping the hunger at bay.

“Dahm pahk,” he mumbled, his words thick and garbled. “Dahm shtoopid pahk an’ dahm shtoopid people.”

But the anger didn’t help for long. Soon, it faded into something heavier, a weight that settled deep in his chest. He curled up on the mattress, pulling the thin blanket over his head, and tried to shut out the world.

Tomorrow would be the same, he knew. Brassvale didn’t care about kids like him, and neither did the people in it. All he had was his family—his mom, his sisters, and, when he was feeling generous, even Garth. But even they couldn’t stop the streets from creeping into their lives, no matter how hard they tried.

And Jahnny hated that more than anything.

Chapter 2: Another Day at School

The schoolyard of Stout Elementary wasn’t much more than a concrete wasteland fenced in by chain-link and lined with a sparse scattering of weeds breaking through the cracks. The playground sat in the far corner, its rusted swing set creaking ominously in the brisk morning wind. A patch of uneven dirt served as the kickball field, its bases worn down to bare patches of earth. Nearby, a tattered basketball net hung from a tilted metal pole, the rim bent out of shape like a crooked tooth. On the far side of the yard, separated by a wide alley, loomed the imposing facade of Stout Middle School, a brick fortress with barred windows and peeling graffiti that read “Blenc Rules.” It cast a long shadow, both literally and metaphorically, over the younger kids.

Jahnny hopped off the school bus and adjusted the straps on his oversized backpack, which hung awkwardly low on his small frame. His sneakers, scuffed and splitting at the seams, crunched over the gravel as he scanned the yard for his friends. Being alone here was a mistake, even for someone like Jahnny who knew how to keep his head down. It had been more than a week since the scene at the park and his face, while still bruised and scabbed, had lowered in swelling surprisingly well, though Jahnny had always been a quick healer.

Tyrell was easy to spot, a small burst of energy against the worn backdrop of Brassvale Elementary. He leaned against the faded brick wall, his hoodie pulled up like a shield against the cold. A scuffed rubber ball bounced rhythmically off the cracked pavement, its dull thud filling the otherwise empty space.

Jahnny jogged toward him, the sight of his friend’s familiar grin a small flicker of warmth in an otherwise gray morning. Behind Tyrell, the brick wall was smeared with faint graffiti—shapes and letters that looked like they had been erased but never truly disappeared, much like the marks the city left on everyone who lived there.

“What’s good, Jahnny?” Tyrell greeted, catching the ball one last time and stuffing it into his hoodie pocket.

“Not much,” Jahnny replied, a small grin tugging at his lips. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them warm against the morning chill.

Danny sat nearby on the steps leading to the school entrance, hunched over his trusty notebook. His tongue poked out in concentration as he carefully outlined the cape of his latest superhero sketch. Danny was always drawing—sketches of monsters, superheroes, or elaborate maps of imaginary worlds he dreamed up.

“Hey, Danny,” Jahnny called as he approached. “What’re you working on now?”

Danny looked up, his glasses slipping down his nose. He smiled sheepishly before holding up the notebook. “It’s a new hero. His name’s Time Stopper. He can freeze time, rewind it, or slow it down when he’s fighting bad guys.”

Tyrell snorted, tossing his ball into the air. “Time Stopper? Sounds like a knockoff cereal. ‘Now with 50% more time-stopping marshmallows!’”

Danny scowled, hugging his notebook to his chest. “It’s still a work in progress!”

Jahnny chuckled, leaning against the wall. “How about ‘Clock Shock’? Or ‘Tick Tock Hero’?”

Tyrell clapped his hands dramatically. “Tick Tock Hero! He fights crime in sixty-second bursts and gives motivational speeches between battles!”

Even Danny cracked a smile. “Okay, okay, I get it. You guys are the real heroes of imagination.”

“Damn straight,” Tyrell said, grinning. The banter carried them all the way to the school doors.

“I think it’s cool,” Jahnny said earnestly after peeking at the sketch. The hero’s cape was billowing dramatically in an imaginary wind, and lightning bolts framed the figure like an electric aura, or at least that’s what it was supposed to show. “But maybe you could give him a weapon or something. Like, if time’s frozen, he could move super fast and land a hundred punches before anyone blinks.”

Danny’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! That’d be awesome. I could give him, like, a time gauntlet or something.”

“Or call him Quick Clock,” Tyrell teased, snickering. “You know, because he’s quick and clock-y.”

Danny glared at him, though his lips twitched as if he were trying not to laugh. “You’re impossible, Ty.”

---

The warning bell rang, echoing off the cracked concrete walls of the yard. Kids hurried toward the doors in a swarm of brightly colored jackets and mismatched backpacks. Jahnny stuck close to Tyrell and Danny as they shuffled toward the entrance, passing by the older middle schoolers who loitered on the alley between the two schools.

The middle schoolers didn’t pay much attention to the younger kids unless they needed a quick errand or someone to push. Jahnny glanced nervously at a group of boys from Stout Middle who were leaning against the fence, passing around a cigarette. Their uniforms were the same as the elementary school’s—navy blue polos and khakis—but they wore theirs like armor, untucked and rumpled, with an air of casual rebellion.

“Yo, that’s gonna be us one day,” Tyrell said, nodding toward the middle schoolers.

“Smoking and skipping class?” Danny asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Nah,” Tyrell replied, smirking. “But, you know, older. Cooler. Maybe we’ll have a gang or something.”

Jahnny stayed quiet, his eyes lingering on the group. One of the boys, taller than the rest, had a jagged scar running across his cheek. He held the cigarette like it was a trophy and laughed loudly at something one of his friends said. The image stuck with Jahnny—not fear, exactly, but an uncomfortable curiosity.

“What’s it like in middle school, you think?” Jahnny finally asked as they reached the steps.

“Probably harder,” Tyrell said. “But we’ll still run this place when we get there.”

“Speak for yourself,” Danny said, stuffing his notebook into his backpack. “I just hope they’ve got better lunch food.”

Tyrell snorted. “Man, you’re such a nerd.”

The boys joined the rush of students filing into the building, their voices blending into the noisy hallway. For now, middle school and its challenges were just a looming shadow. But Jahnny couldn’t help but feel like it was watching, waiting for them to catch up.

---

Jahnny slid into his seat near the back of the classroom, scuffed desk wobbling slightly as he set his tattered notebook down. The room was a patchwork of faded, torn posters, outdated maps, and a wall of windows letting in dim light that didn’t quite reach the corners. Mrs. Hartford, their teacher, stood at the chalkboard scribbling today’s math lesson in her unmistakable chicken scratch. Her voice was steady but tired, the kind of tone that said she’d been doing this job for far too long.

Danny was seated two rows over, already doodling in his notebook. Tyrell, who could never sit still for more than five minutes, was leaning back in his chair, tilting it at a precarious angle. He tossed a balled-up scrap of paper at Jahnny, who caught it with one hand and smirked.

Jahnny uncrumpled the note. It was a crude stick-figure drawing of Mrs. Hartford with her hair sticking out like a cactus, yelling at a stick version of Tyrell. Beneath it, Tyrell had scrawled: >5$ says I geit her to bloh up by lunch<

Jahnny stifled a laugh, shaking his head. >ull geit detenshun agan< he scrawled back and tossed it onto Tyrell’s desk.

Mrs. Hartford turned just in time to catch the exchange. “Mr. Jahnny,” she said sharply, the class going quiet. “If you’re going to pass notes, perhaps you’d like to share with the rest of us.”

Jahnny froze, his cheeks burning. He hated being called out. “Sorry, Mrs. Hartford,” he muttered.

Tyrell, still leaning in his chair, grinned but didn’t say a word.

The morning passed slowly, with Mrs. Hartford going over fractions while Jahnny did his best to keep up. Numbers swam on the page, never quite settling into place. He’d always struggled with math, and today was no different. His pencil scratched hesitantly across the paper as he tried to figure out how to divide 48 by 6.

The other students weren’t much better. A few kids whispered to each other, heads low over their desks. A boy in the front row had fallen asleep, his head resting on his folded arms. Jahnny felt a pang of envy; at least he didn’t have to try and make sense of the numbers.

Tyrell was up to something again. Jahnny could see him out of the corner of his eye, leaning over to talk to Marcus, a big kid who sat a few rows up. Marcus was one of the troublemakers, always cracking jokes and causing disruptions. Tyrell whispered something to him, sneaking him something quickly before hurrying back to his desk, leaving Marcus sniggering.

Jahnny braced himself. Whatever Tyrell was planning, it wasn’t going to end well.

“Alright, class,” Mrs. Hartford announced, taking Jahnny’s attention as the math lesson came to an end. “Take out your social studies books and turn to page forty-two.”

There was a collective groan from the class as students rustled through their desks. Jahnny reached into his bag and pulled out his battered textbook, its cover barely holding on with duct tape.

“Jahnny,” Tyrell hissed from behind him. Jahnny turned slightly, and Tyrell nodded toward Marcus. Jahnny followed the motion and saw Marcus holding something small and dark in his hand.

“What is that?” Jahnny whispered back but Tyrell just grinned in reponse, waiting.

As Mrs. Hartford began reading from the textbook, Marcus suddenly stood and cleared his throat dramatically. The class turned to look at him, and Mrs. Hartford frowned.

“Yes, Marcus? Is there a problem?”

“Not at all, ma’am,” Marcus said with mock politeness. Then, quick as a flash, he lobbed the object toward her desk where it landed with a wet splat.

~CROAAOAK~

A large spikey soaked toad stared at Harford with a honest curiousity as to it’s location and how it could have possibily got there.

The room erupted into chaos, laughter and shrieks colliding like the din of a broken carnival. Some kids scrambled onto their desks, pointing and howling as the toad leapt across the floor, its fat body gleaming in the fluorescent light.

Mrs. Hartford yelped, stumbling back as if the tiny creature were some great beast sent to devour her. Her hand clutched her chest, her face pale beneath the layers of makeup she wore to cover the years of wear from classrooms like this one.

It simply let out another croak in response

Jahnny sat frozen at his desk, the absurdity of the scene unfolding like a cracked mirror of his own world. The amphibian’s desperate leaps seemed almost too familiar, a small thing struggling to escape a much bigger cage.

“Who did this?” she shouted, her face red.

Marcus sat down, feigning innocence. “Not me, ma’am, I was just wanting to know if I could use the bathroom, I promise.”

Mrs. Hartford’s eyes swept the room before landing on Jahnny, who was still sitting quietly at his desk. “Jahnny!” she snapped. “Was this your doing?”

“What? No!” Jahnny protested, his heart sinking. He looked at Tyrell, but his friend avoided his gaze.

“Detention,” Mrs. Hartford said firmly. “I don’t tolerate this kind of behavior in my classroom.”

Jahnny slumped in his chair, furious but knowing there was no point arguing. He felt the eyes of the class on him, some amused, others pitying. He clenched his fists under the desk, willing himself not to cry.

The rest of the morning dragged on. Jahnny didn’t even bother taking notes during social studies. What was the point? He’d already been branded as the troublemaker, even if he hadn’t done anything.

When the bell finally rang, he grabbed his bag and trudged toward the door, being one of the first ones out. Tyrell caught up to him, looking sheepish.

“Yo, sorry, man,” Tyrell said. “I didn’t think she’d pin it on you.”

“Whatever,” Jahnny muttered, not looking at him.

Danny joined them, his notebook tucked under his arm. “What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Jahnny said quickly. “Let’s just go eat.”

The three boys walked toward the cafeteria together, their usual banter muted. Jahnny’s fists stayed clenched in his pockets, anger simmering just beneath the surface. Despite the smells of the food, and the growl of his stomach, his appetite was gone.

---

The bell rang, releasing a flood of students into the streets of Blenc like a broken dam. Jahnny, Tyrell, and Danny walked side by side, backpacks slung low and dragging slightly as they navigated the cracked sidewalks. The late afternoon sun was weak, casting long shadows of chain-link fences and boarded-up buildings. It was the same route they always took, cutting through a stretch of worn-out houses and overgrown lots to avoid the busier main roads. School had let out but it was still on their minds.

“You know Mrs. Hartford’s probably writing you up for that frog thing,” Danny said, still clutching his notebook like a lifeline.

Jahnny rolled his eyes. “What else is new? She’s always blaming me for something.”

“Man, it’s ’cause she knows you don’t got backup,” Tyrell said, spinning a rock down the sidewalk with the tip of his shoe. “She’d never try that with Marcus. His mom would come up there screamin’.”

Jahnny sighed. “Yeah, well, my mom’s got enough to deal with. She’s not about to come marching into school over some dumb frog.”

They turned the corner onto Vine Street, where a broken swing set tilted awkwardly in the front yard of an abandoned house. A pair of stray dogs rummaged through a trash pile nearby, growling at each other over scraps. The boys walked in silence for a moment, their footsteps crunching on bits of gravel.

“Y’all ever notice how middle school kids think they’re hot stuff?” Danny said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

“Yeah,” Tyrell replied. “But they ain’t. Just bigger losers than us.”

Jahnny smirked. “Those middle school guys ain’t cool. They just act tough ‘cause they’re bigger.”

“Still, they don’t get in trouble for frogs,” Tyrell added.

The group chuckled, but their light mood didn’t last. As they cut through a small lot with rusted-out cars and weeds, tall as Jahnny, a group of older kids leaned against the fence at the far end. Jahnny recognized a few of them—troublemakers from school who loved making other kids’ lives miserable.

“Yo, ain’t that da white boy whose sister a hoe?” one of them called out, grinning maliciously. It was the one on the nice red bike, Darren, an eighth-grader with a reputation for bullying anyone who looked at him the wrong way.

Jahnny froze. The insult hit hard, not just because it was aimed at Clara, but because he couldn’t do anything about it. Clara’s choices weren’t his to defend, but they cast a shadow he couldn’t escape.

Tyrell and Danny shifted uneasily, avoiding eye contact with the older kids. Jahnny, however, squared his shoulders.

“Say that again,” Jahnny said, his voice low and steady.

Darren gave a quick couple of peddles, nearing the group, saying just as he stopped his bike and looked down at them. His height nearly twice Jahnny’s. “You heard me, little man. Heard she’s got a boyfriend twice her age. What, your family too broke for dudes her own grade? Gotta whore her out?”

Jahnny’s fists balled up, his cheeks flushing red. He knew he was outmatched, but his pride wouldn’t let him walk away. “Shut your mouth,” he said through gritted teeth.

Darren laughed, the sound cold and cruel. “Tell you h’wat, let me know how much she is and uhh, me and da boys might swing by later, huh?”

Without thinking, Jahnny swung at Darren. His fist connected with the older boy’s chest, but it was like punching a car. Darren, who rarely actually played, was apart of his school’s football team, and therefore barely flinched before shoving Jahnny to the ground, still balancing on his bike with no effort.

“On second thought, we’re pretty enough.” Darren said with a smirk as he looked back to his friends who were watching and laughing. “We’ll probably get a group coupon, might not even have to pay.” Darren sneered as Jahnny got back to his feet only to find himself being shoved into Danny by Darren, sending both to the ground as he let out a small giggle

“Actually, y’know, might not even visit her. I mean, you’re of the same blood,” Darren whispered with a minor pause, “I’m sure you’re open for business.” A sly grin grew across his face, revealing his yellow teeth as Jahnny stared back in horror, watching Darren place the kickstand down on his bike and crack his knuckles.

“Fuck you.” Jahnny hissed, frantically crawling backwards as Darren raced towards him, grabbing his shirt and pulling him up quickly before shoving him back down into the dirt with his foot.

“I mean, that was the joke I was making.” He snapped with a sadistic laugh before spitting on Jahnny, finally causing him to tear up. “Aw, look! You’re crying like the baby you are.” Darren snickered, pressing his foot down harder into his stomach, forcing him to cough.

“P-please,” Jahnny pleaded quietly, only for Darren to slam him into the dirt, knocking the wind out of him.

“You want more? Say you’re a fag!” Darren yelled, a grin creeping across his face.

“Fuck you-“

“I’m not going to ask again.” Darren said, pressing his foot harder, cutting Jahnny off.

Jahnny closed his eyes, trying to ignore the laughter from Darren’s friends.

“Say it, say you’re a fag. I’ll let you go if you say it.”

“Stop it!” Danny screamed out as Jahnny and Darren looked up to see him olding a bottle in his hand, aiming it at Darren.”Stop it before I get angry!”

Darren paused, his foot still pressing into Jahnny’s stomach, his cruel grin shifting into a sneer of disbelief. “Oh, really? You gonna hit me with that, Bottle Boy?” He laughed, motioning toward his friends. “This kid thinks he’s a superhero or somethin’!”

Tyrell, who had been silently edging closer to the group, took the chance to step beside Danny, his fists clenched. “He’s not playin’, Darren. Back off.”

The laughter from Darren’s friends faltered slightly as they exchanged glances. Darren, however, didn’t seem phased. He stepped off Jahnny, who coughed and rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach. Darren strolled casually toward Danny, his hands raised mockingly in surrender. “Alright, alright, tough guy. Let’s see what you got.”

Danny’s hand trembled as he gripped the bottle tighter, his knuckles white. He didn’t back down, his small frame standing firm. “Leave him alone,” Danny repeated, his voice louder this time.

Darren stopped a foot away, his eyes narrowing. “Or what?”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The bottle trembled in Danny’s hand, his wide eyes darting between Darren and Jahnny. But then Tyrell stepped in, his voice cutting through the tension.

“Don’t need a bottle,” Tyrell said, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. “We can take you right now if we have to. And don’t think the rest of your crownies are gonna stop us.”

Darren’s laughter echoed through the lot, harsh and grating as his friends doubled over, slapping their knees and gasping for air. “Oh, man,” Darren wheezed, wiping at his eyes. “You two are killin’ me. What’s next? Gonna challenge me to a dance-off?”

Danny’s grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles white. He looked to Tyrell, who nodded once, silent encouragement gleaming in his eyes.

“Go ahead, try me!” Darren taunted, spreading his arms wide. “Let’s see what you got, Bottle Boy!”

Without hesitation, Danny squeezed the trigger on the bottle. A sharp hiss cut through the air as a stream of pepper spray hit Darren square in the face. His laughter turned into an agonized roar as he stumbled backward, clawing at his eyes.

“WHOAUAH!!! Wh-What the hell?!” Darren bellowed, his voice cracking as he dropped to his knees. His friends froze, their laughter replaced with stunned silence.

“Run!” Tyrell shouted, grabbing Jahnny under one arm while Danny, bottle still in hand, grabbed the other. Together, they hoisted him to his feet and bolted, weaving between the rusted cars and tall weeds. But not before Danny took a quick moment to run back and kick Darren in the balls sending the bully to the ground in tormenting pain.

Behind them, Darren’s screams echoed through the lot. “You’re dead! You hear me? Dead!” His words were cut off by choking coughs as the pepper spray did its work.

The three boys didn’t stop, their breath coming in ragged gasps as they raced down the alley. Tyrell led the way, zigzagging through the maze of Blenc’s backstreets. The sound of Darren’s threats faded into the distance, replaced by the pounding of their own hearts and the slap of their shoes on the pavement.

When they finally stopped, it was in a narrow alley tucked between two crumbling apartment buildings. Jahnny leaned against the wall, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Tyrell bent over, hands on his knees, while Danny clutched the pepper spray like it was a lifeline.

“You—” Jahnny gasped, coughing through his words. “You sprayed him. Where’d you even get that?”

Danny shrugged, his face pale but determined. “My mom keeps it in her purse. I… borrowed it.”

Tyrell let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Borrowed it? Man, you just took out Darren Freakin’ Grady with your mom’s pepper spray. You’re a legend.”

Danny gave a shaky smile, the adrenaline still coursing through him. “I didn’t know if it’d work. I just… I didn’t want him to hurt Jahnny anymore.”

Jahnny managed a weak grin, wiping at the dirt on his face. “You saved me. Both of you.”

Tyrell straightened, clapping Jahnny on the shoulder. “Yeah, well, don’t make a habit of it, alright? I’m not tryna go toe-to-toe with Darren and his goons every day.”

Danny finally pocketed the pepper spray, his hand still trembling. “What if he comes after us? What if he tells someone?”

Jahnny shook his head, his voice steadier now. “He won’t. He’s too embarrassed. He’ll say he tripped or something. Guys like him don’t admit when they’ve been beaten.”

For a moment, the three stood in silence, the gravity of what had just happened settling over them. Then Tyrell broke the tension with a wide grin.

“Still,” he said, nudging Danny. “You better give your mom her pepper spray back before she notices.”

Danny chuckled, the sound light and genuine, and for the first time all day, the weight of Blenc felt a little easier to carry. As the boys started back toward their neighborhood, they stuck close together, their steps lighter, their laughter echoing down the alley.

---

The rest of the walk home was quieter than usual. Tyrell and Danny kept their distance, sensing Jahnny’s foul mood, but they didn’t abandon him. As they approached Jahnny’s apartment building, Danny tried to lighten the mood.

“You know,” he said, “when I get older, I’m gonna be rich. Like, own-my-own-video-game-store rich.”

“Yeah?” Tyrell said. “You gonna let us play for free?”

“Hell nah! But maybe I’ll give you a discount.”

Jahnny smirked despite himself. “A discount? Gee, thanks, Danny.”

The tension eased slightly as they joked about their future dreams, making fun of each other’s plans. By the time they reached Jahnny’s building, some of the weight from earlier had lifted.

“See you tomorrow,” Danny said as they parted ways. Tyrell gave Jahnny a small fist bump followed by a quick handshake and another fistbump before following Danny down the street.

Jahnny watched them leave before heading inside. The familiar smell of cabbage and baby powder greeted him, along with the sound of Betsy’s soft coos, the only sound that really seemed to ease him. A sound that pulled him to Baby Betsy’s crib, where he peered down at her, her tiny fists clapping together as she giggled.

“Alright, Bets,” Jahnny said, lifting up and wiggling a stuffed rabbit’s ears, a toy he grabbed on her way to her. “What’s Mr. Flop gonna do today? Save the world or steal all the cookies?”

“Coo’ees!” Betsy squealed, her chubby arms reaching for the toy.

Jahnny laughed, leaning forward to bop her nose with the rabbit. “You’ve got cookie priorities, huh? Alright, Mr. Flop’s stealing cookies.”

He made exaggerated sneaking noises as he tiptoed the rabbit across the room’s edge. Betsy shrieked with delight, her laughter bubbling up like music in the dingy apartment.

Marie glanced over from the kitchen, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “You’re good with her,” she said softly.

Jahnny shrugged, but inside, he felt a warmth he couldn’t quite explain. For a moment, the world outside them didn’t matter. It was just him, Betsy, and a rabbit on a cookie heist.

Chapter 3: Morning Errands

Jahnny stirred as a low, gravelly whisper pulled him from his sleep. “Jahnny, c’mon, boy. Get up. We got stuff to do.” The voice was his father’s—familiar, rough, and carrying a weight that always made Jahnny snap awake.

He blinked in the dim light, his eyes adjusting to the faint glow of a streetlamp filtering through the gaps in the threadbare curtains. His father crouched beside him, his face half-shadowed but still grinning that lopsided grin he wore when he was up to something.

“Why? What time is it?” Jahnny asked, his voice thick with sleep.

“Early,” Garth replied, his words a quiet rasp. He glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway, then back to his son. “We got a big day ahead, my boy. Don’t wanna waste it lying around like the rest of ’em.”

Jahnny rubbed his eyes, glancing at the door. He knew “the rest of ’em” meant his mom and sisters. They were probably still asleep in the other room, oblivious to the whispers. Lila usually wore earmuffs to sleep to try and dampen the occasional fights, so he wasn’t too worried of her waking up. He sat up, the thin blanket slipping off his shoulders. “What about school?”

Garth snorted softly, shaking his head. “School? You kiddin’ me? You think they teach anything worth a damn in that place? Nah, you stick with me, and I’ll show you what life’s really about.”

The words sounded important, like a promise. Jahnny’s chest puffed up a little, his father’s grin infectious. He swung his legs over the side of his makeshift mattress, his bare feet touching the cold floor.

“Here, throw this on.” Garth handed him a worn hoodie that smelled faintly of sweat and cigarettes. Jahnny tugged it over his head as his father tousled his hair, leaving it sticking out in messy tufts.

“That’s my boy,” Garth said with a chuckle.

They crept down the narrow hallway, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath their weight. The house was quiet save for the occasional murmur of baby Betsy in her crib and the soft sighs of Marie’s restless sleep.

Garth paused as he and Jahnny saw Clara spaced out on the couch, slowly nodding in and out of some type of state of consciousness, a sight common when her boyfriend got his check. Garth turned to his son, leaning close to whisper, “You know why I wake you up and not them, don’t ya?”

Jahnny shrugged, unsure if he should answer.

Garth crouched, his grin fading into something more serious. “Because you’re different, Jahnny. You’re not like them. Your sisters? They’re just like your ma—useless, whining, and waiting for someone else to fix their problems. They’ll end up like Clara, running off with some deadbeat who’ll knock ’em up and leave ’em. But you—” He placed a hand on Jahnny’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to make the boy sit up straighter. “You’ve got potential. You’re smart, sharper than all of ’em put together. Stick with me, and I’ll show you how to use it. You’re my right-hand man, Jahnny. You and me, we’re a team.”

The words made Jahnny’s chest swell with pride. He nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure what “potential” meant. He just knew his father believed in him, and that felt like enough.

“Alright, quiet now,” Garth said, rising to his feet. “Don’t wanna wake the hags.”

Jahnny bit back a laugh as they tiptoed to the front door. Garth turned the handle slowly, easing it open to keep the hinges from squealing. The cool morning air hit them as they stepped outside, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

The streets of Blenc were nearly empty, bathed in the pale orange glow of streetlights. The only sounds were the distant hum of cars and the faint rustling of wind through the crumbling alleys. Garth lit a cigarette, the tip flaring briefly as he took a drag.

“Where we goin’?” Jahnny asked, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets to ward off the chill.

“You’ll see.” Garth’s grin returned, mischievous and wide.

Jahnny fell into step beside him, his small legs working to keep up with his father’s confident stride. The world felt bigger and quieter in the early morning, and Jahnny couldn’t help but feel like he was part of something important—something only he and his dad understood.

---

The sun was beginning to rise as Jahnny and Garth made their way deeper into the labyrinth of Blenc’s back alleys. The air grew thicker with the smell of damp concrete, exhaust, and trash, and Jahnny could hear the faint hum of activity—voices murmuring, the occasional rattle of a shopping cart, and distant bursts of laughter that sounded more menacing than joyful.

Garth led the way, his head on a swivel as he scanned the narrow streets. Every so often, he’d stop and glance over his shoulder, his hand reaching back to pull Jahnny closer. “Stick near me, alright? This ain’t no playground.”

Jahnny nodded, his small hand gripping the hem of Garth’s jacket. The boy’s wide eyes took in everything—the graffiti that crawled up the walls like vines, the broken glass that glinted in the weak sunlight, the figures huddled in shadows smoking or counting crumpled bills.

“Where are we goin’?” Jahnny asked after a while, his voice hushed, as if afraid to break the eerie stillness of the alley.

“Just makin’ some stops,” Garth said without looking back. “Gotta check in with some friends, see what’s what.”

They turned a corner and entered a wider alley, where a group of men was gathered around a makeshift table. The table was little more than a wooden door propped up on cinder blocks, and on it lay a disorganized mess of cards, bottle caps, and cigarette butts. The men—rough-looking, with faces that seemed carved from stone—glanced up as Garth approached.

“Garth, you slimy bastard,” one of them drawled, a round man with a scruffy beard and a perpetual sneer. “Didn’t think you’d have the stones to show up here.”

“Relax, Rico,” Garth said, flashing his signature grin. “I ain’t here to cause trouble. Just thought I’d drop in, see how the game’s goin’.”

Rico’s eyes flicked down to Jahnny, his sneer deepening. “And who’s this? Bringin’ the kid around now? What kinda mess you draggin’ him into?”

“Family business,” Garth said smoothly, resting a hand on Jahnny’s shoulder. “Boy’s gotta learn the ropes someday, right? Ain’t no harm in watchin’ his old man work. Plus, the kid’s a good luck charm, aren’t ya?”

Jahnny puffed out his chest a little, trying to look tougher than he felt under Rico’s piercing gaze, nodding, unsure what was expected of him.

One of the other men, a short guy with a shaved head and noticeably large legs, chuckled. “Kid looks like he’d blow over in a stiff wind. You sure he’s cut out for this, Garth?”

“Don’t let the size fool ya,” Garth said, ruffling Jahnny’s hair. “He’s sharper than he looks. Got a good head on his shoulders, this one.”

The men exchanged skeptical looks, but Garth didn’t wait for their approval. He stepped up to the table, pulling a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket. “Alright, who’s dealin’? Let’s see if I can’t turn this into somethin’ worthwhile.”

As the game began, Jahnny stood off to the side, his eyes darting between the men and the cards. He didn’t understand much of what was happening, but he could tell by the way his father leaned forward, his grin growing wider, that things were going well—for now.

But the good mood didn’t last long.

“Damn it, Garth,” Rico hissed as Garth raked in another small pile of bills. “You’re always too damn lucky. What’s your secret, huh?”

“No secret,” Garth said with a smirk. “Just a little skill and a lotta charm.”

The other men muttered amongst themselves, their suspicion growing thicker in the air. Jahnny shifted uncomfortably, his instincts telling him this wasn’t going to end well.

As if on cue, a new figure stepped into the alley. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face partially hidden under the brim of a battered hat. His voice was a low rumble as he spoke. “Garth.”

The tone alone made everyone at the table go silent. Garth looked up, his grin faltering for the first time that morning. “Well, if it ain’t Big Ray. Long time no see.”

Big Ray didn’t return the pleasantry. His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked to Jahnny before settling back on Garth. “You know why I’m here.”

“Now hold on,” Garth began, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve been meanin’ to get you that money. Just had a few setbacks, is all.”

“Setbacks don’t pay debts, Garth,” Big Ray said evenly. “And you’re outta time.”

Jahnny’s stomach twisted as he watched the exchange. The playful charm his father had shown all morning was gone, replaced by a nervous energy that didn’t suit him.

“Look,” Garth said, forcing a grin. “I’m workin’ on it. Got a plan, a real good one. Just need a little more time, that’s all.”

Big Ray stepped closer, the menace in his presence palpable. “You’ve been sayin’ that for months. Your plans ain’t worth shit if they don’t pay up. And you know what happens to people who cross me.”

Jahnny’s heart pounded as he instinctively stepped closer to his father. Garth placed a protective arm in front of him, his grin slipping into a defiant smirk. “You wouldn’t hurt a guy in front of his kid, now would ya, Ray? That’s bad for business.”

Big Ray’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re lucky I got other things to handle today. But this ain’t over, Garth. Not by a long shot.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the alley in tense silence.

Rico let out a low whistle. “Damn, Garth. You really know how to pick your enemies.”

Garth shrugged, trying to regain his composure. “It’s all part of the game, Rico. Now, where were we?”

But Jahnny couldn’t shake the feeling that the morning had just taken a dangerous turn. He stayed close to his father, the image of Big Ray’s cold glare burned into his mind.

---

After leaving the alley, Garth led Jahnny into the busier parts of Brassvale, the streets alive with a mix of early risers and those who hadn’t made it home from the night before. Jahnny’s small feet hurried to keep up with his father, who moved with purpose, his gait confident despite the tension from their last stop.

The smell of food carts and car exhaust filled the air as they weaved through the bustling streets. Garth glanced down at his son, his grin back in place. “Alright, kid. Time to make some real moves. You remember what I taught you?”

Jahnny nodded, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what his father meant. Garth had taught him plenty—most of it subtle tricks to earn sympathy or to spot someone with an easy mark’s face. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Good. Just stick by me and keep that innocent look goin’. We’re gonna hit a few spots, make enough cash to take care of a few things.”

“What things?” Jahnny asked, his brow furrowing.

“Stuff you don’t need to worry about,” Garth said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Just do what I say, alright?”

The first stop was a small church on the edge of the district. It wasn’t Sunday, but the doors were open, and a handful of people were inside, setting up for a community breakfast. Garth put on his best humble act, pulling Jahnny closer as they stepped through the doors.

Inside, a few older women were arranging folding chairs while a man in a frayed suit stacked paper plates. The smell of pancakes and coffee filled the air, and Jahnny’s stomach growled audibly.

“Good morning,” Garth said, his voice soft and laden with faux humility. “Sorry to bother y’all, but we’re in a bit of a bind.”

The man in the suit looked up, his face creasing with concern. “What can we do for you?”

Garth sighed heavily, placing a hand on Jahnny’s shoulder. “My boy and I… we’ve fallen on some hard times. Lost our place last week, and we’re just trying to get back on our feet. Anything you can spare—food, maybe a little cash—it’d mean the world to us.”

Jahnny felt a pang of guilt as the women looked at him with pity, their kind eyes scanning his thin frame and ragged clothes. He glanced down at his shoes, which were worn but not as bad as the story Garth was spinning.

“Oh, bless your heart,” one of the women said, hurrying over with a Styrofoam plate of pancakes. “Here, sweetie. You look like you could use a good meal.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Garth said, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he took the plate. “You’re too kind. God bless ya.”

The man in the suit reached into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills. “It ain’t much, but I hope it helps.”

Garth accepted the money with a grateful nod, slipping it into his jacket pocket. “Every little bit helps, sir. Thank you so much.”

They lingered just long enough for Garth to scoop up a few more handouts before leaving the church. As they walked away, Jahnny looked up at his father. “Why’d you lie to them?”

Garth chuckled, breaking off a piece of pancake and handing it to his son. “It ain’t a lie, kid. We’re just stretchin’ the truth a little. Times are tough, and you do what you gotta do to survive. Don’t overthink it.”

Jahnny chewed on the pancake, his mind swirling with questions he didn’t dare voice.

Their next stop was a pawn shop tucked between a liquor store and a laundromat. The windows were covered in bars, and a flickering neon sign buzzed above the door. Garth held Jahnny’s hand tightly as they entered, the bell above the door jingling.

Behind the counter stood a man with thick glasses and a cheap cigar dangling from his lips. He barely looked up as Garth approached, pulling a small bundle from his jacket.

“What’s that?” the man asked, his voice gravelly.

“Got a few watches and wallets,” Garth said, placing the items on the counter. “Real nice stuff. Figured you might be interested.”

The man picked up one of the watches, examining it under a magnifying glass. “Where’d you get this?”

“Found it,” Garth said smoothly. “Cleaned out a storage unit a few weeks back. You know how it is.”

The man snorted but didn’t press further. He set the watch down and picked up a leather wallet, flipping through it quickly. “I’ll give you fifty for the lot.”

“Fifty? C’mon, Chuck, you can do better than that,” Garth said, leaning on the counter.

“Take it or leave it,” Chuck said, already turning to walk away.

“Fine,” Garth muttered, snatching up the bills that Chuck tossed onto the counter. He stuffed the money into his pocket and gestured for Jahnny to follow him.

As they stepped back into the sunlight, Jahnny hesitated. “Those wallets weren’t yours, were they?”

Garth crouched down, his expression softening. “Listen, kid. You gotta understand somethin’. The world ain’t fair, especially to people like us. You gotta take what you can get, or someone else will take it from you first. You’ll see that someday.”

Jahnny’s eyes caught on the faint outline of a chalk drawing on the sidewalk—a pink and yellow bunny, its cheerful lines blurred and running in streaks from the morning’s dew. The color clung stubbornly to the cracks in the concrete, refusing to be washed away completely. Jahnny stared at it, his mind snagging on the thought that something so bright could still fade so easily.

Jahnny trailed behind his father as they left the pawn shop, the clink of money in Garth’s pocket feeling heavier than the bills themselves. The air outside smelled of the usual oil and exhaust, the distant hum of traffic blending into the city’s constant noise.

He kicked at a loose pebble, watching it skip across the cracked pavement. Garth walked ahead, his stride confident, but Jahnny couldn’t shake the memory of how his father had smiled at the shopkeeper—a grin too wide, too fake.

“Why’d you lie about the wallets?” Jahnny blurted, his voice sharper than he intended.

Garth glanced back with an expression of annoyance as he gave a heavy sigh. “It’s not lying,” he said, his tone casual. “It’s business.”

“But they weren’t yours,” Jahnny pressed, a knot forming in his chest.

Garth stopped, crouching down so they were eye level. “Look, kid,” he said, his voice softening. “Blenc’s not a place where people play fair. You think that guy in there gives a damn about us? He’d screw me over in a heartbeat if he thought he could. Everyone here’s just tryin’ to stay afloat.”

Jahnny bit his lip, his eyes darting to the dingy pawn shop window. He didn’t like it—didn’t like the lying, the stealing, the way his dad always seemed to be one step ahead of trouble but never ahead of the world.

But then he thought about Betsy’s cries, about the empty fridge at home and the rent jar with its pathetic collection of coins. His father’s words rang in his ears. Everyone’s just tryin’ to stay afloat.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of similar stops—churches, shelters, and even a diner where Garth talked the waitress into giving them free coffee. By the time the sun was high overhead, they had amassed a modest haul of cash and food.

Garth grinned as he counted the bills in his pocket, clearly pleased with himself. “Not bad for a morning’s work, huh?”

Jahnny didn’t respond. His mind was too busy grappling with the weight of what he’d seen and heard. For the first time, he wondered if his father’s version of survival was the only way—or just the way Garth had chosen.

Chapter 4: Clincal Trials

Jahnny shuffled along beside his father, the uneven sidewalk forcing him to watch his step. Garth’s long strides kept them moving at a brisk pace, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Where’re we going, Dad?” Jahnny asked, his breath puffing in the cold morning air.

Garth glanced down at him, his grin flashing for a moment before fading. “Just a little job, champ. Nothing to worry about.”

“What kind of job?”

“The kind that pays,” Garth said, his tone sharp enough to end the conversation. But when Jahnny’s frown deepened, he sighed and crouched down to meet his son’s eyes. “Look, it’s a simple thing. There’s this clinic that needs help with… tests. They’re paying good money, and it’s easy work. You just gotta follow their instructions for a bit. Eat some vitamins, answer some questions. That’s it.”

Jahnny’s brows knit together. “Why me? Why not you?”

“’Cause they’re lookin’ for smart kids like you,” Garth said, ruffling his hair. “You’re the perfect age for this kinda thing. They’re gonna love you.”

Jahnny didn’t respond. Something about the way his dad said “perfect age” didn’t sit right. But Garth was already standing, brushing off his knees and gesturing for Jahnny to keep walking.

The Massachatta Research Institute looked more like an office building than anything else, its clean glass doors a stark contrast to the dingy streets outside. Garth pulled Jahnny inside, the warmth of the lobby wrapping around them like a blanket.

A young woman sat behind the front desk, her polished smile bright but tired. She glanced up as they approached, her eyes flicking between Garth and Jahnny.

“Good morning,” she said, her tone practiced. “How can I help you?”

“We’re here for the clinical trial,” Garth said smoothly, resting his hand on Jahnny’s shoulder. “This here’s my boy. Name’s Jahnny Harper.”

The receptionist’s smile faltered. She glanced at her clipboard, then back at Jahnny. “This trial is for children ten and older. Is he…”

“He’s ten,” Garth said quickly, flashing his most charming grin. “Just turned last month. Can’t you tell? Big for his age.”

Jahnny blinked, his lips parting in confusion. He wasn’t ten—he was seven. But Garth’s hand squeezed his shoulder, a silent warning to keep quiet.

“Right,” the receptionist said, her tone skeptical. She flipped through her papers, her brows furrowing slightly. “I’ll need you to fill out some forms before we proceed. They include questions about medical history, any current medications, things like that.”

“No problem,” Garth said, grabbing the clipboard and pen she handed him. He nudged Jahnny toward one of the lobby chairs. “Sit tight, buddy. I’ll handle this.”

As Jahnny sat down, his legs swinging nervously, he watched his dad scribble on the forms. The way Garth’s pen darted across the page, barely pausing to read, made his stomach twist.

---

The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Garth and Jahnny stepped into the clean, sterile lobby of the Massachatta Research Institute. The contrast between the polished floors and the rough streets they’d walked that morning was jarring. Everything inside gleamed unnaturally, from the oversized potted plants to the receptionist’s desk, which looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. Garth walked with the confidence of someone who had convinced himself he belonged, his arm draped protectively over Jahnny’s shoulder.

Jahnny glanced around nervously, his small frame almost swallowed up by his oversized hoodie. The sight of people in lab coats and surgical masks made his stomach churn. He tightened his grip on his dad’s hand, though Garth’s grip on him was firm and unrelenting.

“Afternoon,” Garth said smoothly as they approached the desk. His voice had that too-friendly tone he used when he wanted something. “We’re here for the clinical trials. Name’s Garth Harper, and this here’s my boy.”

The receptionist, a young woman with a professional smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, glanced down at Jahnny. “For the pediatric trials?”

“That’s the one,” Garth said, nodding. “My boy’s eager to help out, ain’t ya, buddy?”

Jahnny didn’t respond. He kept his head down, studying the polished floor as if the speckles in the tile would offer some kind of escape route.

The receptionist’s eyes narrowed slightly. “We typically require participants to be at least ten years old.”

“He’s ten,” Garth said quickly. “Just turned last month. Can’t you tell? Big for his age.”

Jahnny’s heart skipped. He wasn’t anywhere near ten, and anyone with half a brain could see that. But the receptionist didn’t argue. She sighed and began typing into her computer.

“Alright,” she said, her tone clipped. “I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork to confirm his eligibility.”

“Of course, of course,” Garth said, grinning. He nudged Jahnny toward one of the chairs. “Sit tight, champ. Let your old man handle this.”

Jahnny sat down, his legs swinging over the edge of the chair as he watched his father. Garth leaned casually against the counter, answering the woman’s questions with practiced ease. Every answer was a lie—Jahnny’s age, his medical history, even the part where Garth claimed he was a single father struggling to make ends meet. Garth painted himself as a picture of noble sacrifice, doing whatever it took to provide for his boy.

The receptionist handed Garth a clipboard with several pages of fine print. Garth skimmed them quickly, barely reading the words before scribbling his signature at the bottom of each page. He handed the clipboard back with a flourish, flashing his toothy grin.

“All set?” he asked.

The receptionist hesitated. “Just a moment. I’ll have a nurse escort you to the testing area.”

As she made a call, Garth turned to Jahnny, his grin softening into something almost fatherly. “See, kid? Easy. We’ll be in and out, and I’ll take you for some ice cream after.”

Jahnny nodded, though his unease didn’t fade. He didn’t like lying, even if his dad acted like it was no big deal. But he didn’t want to disappoint him either. Garth was the only one who ever treated him like he mattered, like he was special.

---

A tall man in scrubs appeared a few minutes later, his face unreadable behind a surgical mask. “Follow me,” he said, gesturing for them to come.

Garth led the way, keeping his hand firmly on Jahnny’s shoulder as they followed the nurse down a long, sterile hallway. The further they went, the colder the air seemed to get. Jahnny glanced at the doors they passed, each one marked with a room number and a warning sign about biohazards or restricted access. He thought he heard faint voices behind some of them, or the occasional beep of a machine, but the hall itself was eerily quiet.

They stopped at a door marked “Room 4.” The nurse opened it and stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. Inside was a small exam room, no larger than a walk-in closet. A single exam table sat in the middle, flanked by a rolling stool and a counter cluttered with medical supplies. Jahnny’s eyes were drawn to the vials and syringes neatly arranged on a metal tray. He swallowed hard.

“Take a seat,” the nurse said, his tone flat.

Jahnny hesitated, but Garth gave him a little push. “Go on, kiddo. It’s just like the doctor’s office.”

Reluctantly, Jahnny climbed onto the exam table. The paper crinkled loudly under him as he shifted uncomfortably. The nurse wheeled over a stool and began taking Jahnny’s vitals. He checked his pulse, blood pressure, and temperature with quick efficiency, scribbling notes on a clipboard as he worked.

The nurse handed Jahnny a small plastic cup filled with pills, their glossy colors unnatural under the sterile fluorescence of the exam room. “You’ll need to take one of these every morning and evening. They’re part of the trial.”

Jahnny stared at the pills, his small fingers gripping the edge of the exam table. They looked like candy, but their shimmering colors reminded him of oil slicks on puddles—bright on the surface but hiding something dangerous underneath.

Garth snatched the cup before Jahnny could take it, holding it up to the light like it might reveal a secret. “What are these, exactly?” he asked, his tone almost casual.

“Experimental supplements,” the nurse replied, adjusting his mask. “Designed to enhance cognitive function in children. Perfectly safe.”

Garth nodded, clearly satisfied with the vague explanation. He handed the cup to Jahnny, who took it hesitantly, his stomach turning from the uncertainty, he could feel the nurse’s eyes on him, clinical and indifferent. , but his farther leaned towards him with a smile and wink, saying “C’mon, champ. Down the hatch.”

Tossing one of the pills into his mouth, wincing as its bitter taste spread across his tongue, Jahnny felt as through he wasn’t just swallowing a piece of medicine, but a piece of himself he couldn’t get back.

The nurse set the clipboard aside and picked up a syringe. “We’ll also need to administer a small injection. It’s part of the protocol.”

Jahnny froze. “A shot?”

“It’s nothing, buddy,” Garth said, ruffling his hair. “Just a little pinch.”

Jahnny’s hands gripped the edge of the table as the nurse swabbed his arm with alcohol. The sharp prick of the needle made him flinch, but he didn’t cry out. Garth beamed at him like he’d just won a medal.

“See? Tough as nails,” Garth said. “That’s my boy.”

The nurse pressed a cotton ball to Jahnny’s arm and taped it in place. He handed Garth an envelope, its edges bulging slightly. “Your compensation for today’s visit. We’ll see you next week for the follow-up.”

Garth tucked the envelope into his jacket with a satisfied grin. “Thanks, doc. You’ve been a real help.”

The nurse didn’t respond. He was already sanitizing the equipment as Garth and Jahnny left the room. His arm throbbed where the needle had been, and his mouth still tasted faintly of the pills.

He trudged silently beside his father, his small feet scuffing against the pavement. The unease in his chest felt like a weight pressing down on him, growing heavier with every step.

Back in the lobby, Garth couldn’t resist a peek into the envelope. The sight of crisp bills made his grin stretch wider. “Not bad for a day’s work, huh?” he said, clapping Jahnny on the back. “Let’s grab some grub and head home.”

Jahnny nodded, but his mind lingered on the pills and the shot. He didn’t know what they were really for, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. But he didn’t say anything. He never did.

The cold air hit Jahnny like a slap as they stepped outside the clinic. He pulled his hoodie tighter around him, his arm still sore from the injection.

Garth walked beside him, his hand resting on the bulging envelope in his jacket pocket. “You did good in there, champ,” he said. “Real good.”

Jahnny didn’t answer right away. He kicked at a piece of trash on the sidewalk, his mind racing. “Why’d you tell them I was ten?”

Garth slowed, his grin faltering for a fraction of a second. “Because that’s how this works,” he said finally. “They’ve got rules, and sometimes you gotta bend ’em a little to get by. No harm done.”

Jahnny frowned. “But what if I get sick? Or something bad happens?”

“Nothing bad’s gonna happen,” Garth said, his tone growing sharp. “You heard what they said—those pills are gonna make you smarter, better. This is a good thing, Jahnny. Trust me.”

Jahnny nodded, but the knot in his chest didn’t loosen. For the rest of the walk home, he stayed quiet, clutching the pill bottle in his pocket like it might hold all the answers he didn’t have.

---

The bell above the door jingled as Garth pushed it open, ushering Jahnny into the small, greasy diner. The place smelled like fried bacon and syrup, the air thick with the mingled scents of coffee and overcooked hash browns. Red vinyl booths lined the walls, their cushions patched in places with duct tape. A row of stools faced the counter, where a lone cook flipped pancakes with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Pick a spot, kiddo,” Garth said, gesturing to the mostly empty diner. He rubbed his hands together, his mood buoyed by the envelope of cash tucked into his jacket pocket.

Jahnny chose a booth near the window, sliding into the seat and pressing his face to the cold glass. Outside, the city was a blur of cracked pavement and grimy storefronts. A woman in a tattered coat shuffled past, dragging a shopping cart filled with cans and plastic bags. Jahnny turned away, his stomach growling loudly.

Garth slid into the booth across from him, his grin wide and infectious. “Alright, champ,” he said, holding up the laminated menu like it was a treasure map. “Pick your prize. Today, we’re living the high life.”

Jahnny perked up, grabbing the menu eagerly. His usual meals consisted of whatever leftovers were at home—or nothing at all. The thought of ordering something fresh and hot made his mouth water. He scanned the options, his eyes darting between pancakes and burgers, torn between breakfast and lunch. his eyes lit up mistivously as he pointed to the pictures of towering pancakes and greasy burgers. “Can I get both?” he asked, half-joking.

Garth laughed, a real, booming laugh that seemed out of place in Blenc. “You know what? Sure. You’re a growing boy, right? Eat like a king.”

When the waitress came over, her hair teased high and her lipstick faded around the edges, Garth flashed her his toothy grin. “Two coffees to start, darlin’, oh and…” Garth leaned in conspiratorially. “We’ll take the works for this little guy. Pancakes, extra whipped cream, and a bacon cheeseburger on the side.”

Jahnny’s mouth fell open. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Garth asked, his tone mock-serious.

Jahnny beamed as the waitress scribbled down their order. “You got it, sugar” she spoke through the reflection of a 40 year old smoker. For the first time in weeks, his stomach growled with anticipation instead of worry.

Garth didn’t even glance at the menu, waving at the waitress to leave already. “Cheeseburger, extra bacon. Fries on the side.”

The waitress scribbled their order and sauntered off. Garth leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. Jahnny sat quietly, his eyes wandering around the diner. A couple of truckers sat at the counter, laughing loudly over their coffee. A man in a frayed suit hunched over a newspaper, stirring his tea with mechanical precision.

“Thanks, Dad,” Jahnny said, looking back at Garth. “For letting me skip school today. This was kinda fun.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my boy,” Garth replied. “Gotta show you the ropes, right? One day you’ll understand what it means to do whatever it takes to get by.”

Jahnny nodded, unsure of what to say. He didn’t really understand, but he liked the attention his dad was giving him. For once, he wasn’t yelling or calling anyone names. It felt… normal. Almost nice.

The waitress returned with their coffee, sliding the chipped mugs across the table. Steam curled lazily into the air, but the dark liquid inside seemed as bitter as the morning. Jahnny grabbed the sugar packets, tearing three open and pouring their contents into his father’s cup with exaggerated care.

The grains swirled in the coffee like tiny storms, refusing to dissolve easily. “Sweet tooth, huh?” Garth muttered, watching the movement. He took a sip, wincing at the saccharine overload but saying nothing. “Guess you’re lucky you’re a good kid.”

Jahnny smiled faintly, though the words felt hollow. His eyes flicked to the diner’s cracked window, where frost crawled along the edges like veins. Outside, a woman in a torn coat shuffled past, her breath visible in the wintry air. Jahnny wondered if she had sugar for her coffee—if she even had coffee.

Their food arrived not long after, the plates steaming and fragrant. Jahnny dug in immediately, cutting into his pancakes and watching the chocolate chips melt into the syrupy pool on his plate. Each bite was rich and sugary, the kind of meal he could only dream about at home.

Jahnny glanced up from his plate, watching as Garth took another drag from his cigarette. The smoke curled lazily above their table, catching the dim light from the flickering overhead bulb. Garth’s eyes were fixed on his phone, his thumb scrolling through a series of messages Jahnny couldn’t see.

For a moment, his father looked… distant. Not in the loud, angry way he sometimes got when he’d been drinking, but in a quieter, sadder way. Like he was searching for something he knew he wouldn’t find.

“Dad?” Jahnny said hesitantly.

Garth’s head snapped up, his expression softening when he saw Jahnny’s face. “What’s up, champ?”

“You okay?”

“’Course I am,” Garth said, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray and leaned back in his seat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jahnny didn’t answer. Instead, he looked down at his half-finished pancakes, his fork idly poking at a melting chocolate chip. He thought about the way Garth had yelled at Marie last night, the way he always seemed to be running from something—money he owed, people he’d pissed off, problems he couldn’t fix.

Maybe he wasn’t really running, Jahnny thought. Maybe he was just stuck. Stuck in a place where the only way to survive was to keep moving, keep hustling, keep lying.

Jahnny picked up his fork and took another bite, letting the sweetness of the syrup drown out the bitter taste in his mouth.

Garth tore into his burger, barely pausing to chew, his expression now changing to one of pure bliss. He was already halfway through when his phone buzzed along the table. Picking it up and glancing at the screen, and his cheerful expression darkened. He muttered something under his breath, shoving the phone back into his jacket.

Jahnny paused mid-bite, syrup dripping from his fork. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Garth said sharply. He pushed his plate aside, suddenly disinterested in his food. “Just… business.”

Jahnny nodded, trying not to let the shift in mood dampen his appetite. He finished his pancakes quietly, sneaking glances at his dad. Garth was staring out the window now, his jaw clenched, tapping his fingers on the table in an uneven rhythm.

When Jahnny finally set his fork down, his plate licked clean, Garth snapped back to attention. He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Alright, buddy. You all set?”

“Yeah.” Jahnny wiped his hands on a napkin. “That was really good. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Garth said, waving the waitress over for the check. He paid in cash, leaving extra for a tip before standing up and stretching. “C’mon, let’s head out.”

As they walked back into the cold air of Blenc’s streets, Jahnny looked up at his dad, the warmth of the meal still sitting in his stomach. For a brief moment, he felt like maybe things weren’t so bad. Maybe his dad wasn’t so bad.

But Garth was already ahead of him, lighting a cigarette and muttering under his breath as he checked his phone again. Jahnny jogged to catch up, the sound of his father’s words drowned out by the city’s noise. The moment, fleeting as it was, had passed.

Chapter 5: Out in the Cold

The hallway of the apartment building was dimly lit, a single flickering bulb casting jittery shadows on the stained walls. Garth led the way, his heavy boots scuffing against the chipped linoleum as Jahnny trailed close behind, clutching his jacket tightly around him. The bottle of pills was nestled deep in his pocket, the cool plastic pressing against his thigh. He could still hear the echo of the nurse’s stern voice in his head, rattling off instructions about dosage and side effects.

“Be quiet,” Garth hissed as he reached the apartment door, fishing for the key in his pocket. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, and they slipped inside like shadows.

The air inside was thick with the faint smell of reheated beans and damp laundry. The familiar sounds of the neighborhood drifted in through a broken window in the living room—distant sirens, a car revving, someone shouting down the block. Jahnny followed his father into the kitchen, careful to keep his footsteps light, but his stomach dropped when he saw her.

Marie was sitting at the small wooden table, arms crossed, her face set in a stony expression. The single bulb above her cast harsh shadows on her tired features, making her look older than she was. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched them with narrowed eyes.

“Well?” she finally said, her voice low but sharp.

Garth froze for half a beat, then forced a grin. “Marie, sweetheart, didn’t expect you to still be up.” He slipped off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like he hadn’t just walked in after dark with their seven-year-old son, whom he took without telling her.

“Where were you?” Marie’s tone was clipped, her eyes shifting to Jahnny, who was doing his best to stay out of the line of fire.

“Just out makin’ moves, you know how it is,” Garth replied with a casual shrug. “Gotta keep the cash flowin’.”

Marie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “What moves? What’s so important you’ve got Jahnny out at this hour?” Her gaze flicked to the boy, her expression softening briefly before hardening again when she returned her focus to Garth.

Garth waved a dismissive hand, chuckling lightly. “Relax, it wasn’t nothin’ dangerous. Just showin’ the boy the ropes, teachin’ him some life lessons. It’s good for him.”

Jahnny stood silently, his fingers gripping the edge of his pocket where the pill bottle rested. He felt Marie’s gaze land on him again, scrutinizing.

“What kind of life lessons?” she asked coldly. “Because it smells like a bar in here, Garth.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Garth snapped, his grin faltering. “I’m out here bustin’ my ass for this family while you sit around lookin’ for things to nag about.”

Marie shot to her feet, her chair scraping against the floor. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed, her voice trembling with anger. “Don’t you dare pretend like you’re doing this for us. You’re dragging our son into your mess!”

“Mess?” Garth shot back, his tone rising. “You wanna call puttin’ food on the table a mess?”

Jahnny’s voice slipped out before he could stop it. “It wasn’t a bar. We went to this clinic place…”

The room fell into a tense silence. Jahnny immediately regretted speaking. Garth’s head snapped around to glare at him, but it was too late. Marie’s eyes widened as she took a step closer, her gaze darting between the two of them.

“A clinic?” she repeated, her voice shaking. “What clinic?”

“It ain’t what you think,” Garth said quickly, raising his hands.

“What clinic?” Marie demanded, her voice louder now.

“It’s just some trial thing,” Jahnny mumbled, looking down at his shoes.

Marie’s expression darkened as she turned on Garth. “You signed him up for clinical trials? Are you out of your damn mind?”

Garth rolled his eyes, snatching his jacket off the chair. “It’s not a big deal. Just a few pills. They pay good money for this kinda thing. Hell, it’s probably vitamins or somethin’.”

Marie’s hands trembled as she reached for the jacket. Garth moved to block her, but she was faster, yanking it away and pulling out a crumpled packet of papers stuffed into the inner pocket.

Her eyes scanned the first page, her face growing paler with each line. “Experimental drug trials?” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Garth, he’s seven! Seven!”

“Yeah, and he’s a tough kid,” Garth snapped. “It’s not like they’re cuttin’ him open or anything. You’re blowin’ this way outta proportion.”

Marie’s hands clenched around the papers. “You are unbelievable. You’re gambling with our son’s health, Garth. For what? A quick buck?”

“To keep this damn family afloat!” Garth roared, slamming his fist on the table.

Jahnny flinched, his small frame trembling as he stood rooted to the spot. Marie didn’t back down, stepping closer to Garth, her fury palpable.

“No, you’re doing this to feed your own addictions,” she spat. “Don’t you dare pretend you’re some kind of savior. You’re a selfish bastard, and you know it.”

Garth’s face twisted, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Yeah? Well, if I’m so selfish, maybe you should figure out how to pay the rent next month without me!”

Jahnny wished he could disappear. The tension in the room was suffocating, and he felt like a pawn caught in a battle he didn’t understand. His small hand instinctively reached for the pill bottle again, gripping it tightly as if it might anchor him in the storm.

Marie’s voice cracked with emotion. “You don’t get to do this. Not to him. Not to any of us.”

“Well, it’s done now,” Garth snapped, grabbing the papers from her hands. “And guess what? He’s fine. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with him, so maybe you should back the hell off.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. Marie looked at Jahnny, her eyes filled with worry, then back at Garth with disgust.

“You’re not a father,” she said quietly. “You’re a goddamn leech.”

Garth glared at her, then turned on his heel. “Come on, Jahnny. We’re leaving.”

Jahnny hesitated, looking back at his mother. Her face softened as she reached out a hand to him.

“Stay, Jahnny,” she pleaded. “You don’t have to go with him.”

But Garth’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. “Get your coat, kid. Now!”

Jahnny swallowed hard, his small legs carrying him toward the door as he followed his father out into the cold night air that hit him like a slap, biting through his thin coat as he followed his father down the decaying steps of their apartment building. Garth moved fast, his long strides fueled by anger, muttering a string of curses under his breath. Jahnny had to jog to keep up, his small feet slapping against the pavement.

“That woman,” Garth snarled, his voice low but venomous. “Thinks she can talk to me like that? After everything I’ve done for her, for this family? Ungrateful bitch.”

Jahnny kept his head down, the pill bottle in his pocket feeling heavier with every step. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say, so he said nothing, his breath puffing in little clouds in front of him.

“Leech?” Garth spat, his voice rising. “She called me a damn leech? I’m the one out here bustin’ my ass to keep a roof over their heads!” He stopped abruptly, turning to look at Jahnny with wild eyes. “Ain’t I, kid? You saw me tonight, right? Workin’ hard, doin’ what it takes?”

Jahnny nodded quickly, not wanting to set him off. “Yeah, Dad,” he murmured.

“Damn right,” Garth muttered, his jaw clenched. “Ungrateful. The whole lot of ‘em.”

They walked in silence for a while, the city around them eerily quiet. Most of the streetlights in their neighborhood were busted, leaving only the glow of a distant liquor store sign to light their way. The cold crept into Jahnny’s fingers, numbing them even though he shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“What’re we gonna do, Dad?” he asked hesitantly.

Garth stopped walking and let out a long, angry breath. He looked up and down the street, as if searching for an answer in the cracked pavement or boarded-up windows. “Hell if I know,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’ll lock me out, I know she will. Can’t go back in there.”

Jahnny shuffled his feet, his gaze drifting back toward their building. The dim outline of their apartment window was visible from where they stood, a warm rectangle of light cutting through the darkness.

Garth followed his son’s gaze, his expression hardening. “You know what? Fuck this,” Garth hissed, his voice tight with rage. His chest heaved as if he were choking on the weight of his own failure.

Jahnny watched, frozen, as his father stooped down and picked up a jagged piece of brick from the crumbling curb. Garth turned it over in his hand, the rough edges catching the faint light from the liquor store sign down the street. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, as if the rock itself were mocking him.

“Dad,” Jahnny said nervously, his small voice trembling. “What are you—”

The brick flew before Jahnny could finish, its trajectory cutting through the cold night air. It shattered the kitchen window with a thunderous crash, scattering shards of glass onto the pavement below. Jahnny flinched as the fragments sparkled in the streetlight, sharp and fleeting, like broken stars.

From above, the dim light of their apartment spilled out through the jagged hole, casting fractured shadows on the pavement. It reminded Jahnny of a wound that wouldn’t heal. “What the hell is wrong with you, Garth?!” Marie’s voice erupted, sharp and furious. “Are you insane!?” she said as she peaked from the new-made hole.

Garth just stood there, breathing hard, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Get out of here!” Marie’s voice rang out again, louder, more frantic this time. “You’re not coming back in, you hear me? You’re not welcome here!”

A baby’s wail cut through the night, piercing and desperate. Jahnny winced, recognizing Betsy’s cry.

“Oh, great,” Marie shouted, her voice muffled but still furious. “You woke the baby, you son of a bitch!”

Garth’s face twisted into a sneer. “Yeah, well, maybe you shoulda kept your mouth shut!” he yelled back.

The window above them slid open, and Marie leaned out, her face red with anger. “You think you’re a big man, huh? Throwing rocks like a goddamn child? You’re pathetic, Garth. Pathetic!”

Garth took a step closer, his voice rising. “Pathetic? I’m the only one keeping this family afloat! You’re the one sittin’ on your ass all day, complaining about everything I do!”

Jahnny shrank back, trying to make himself invisible as the argument escalated. Marie’s face twisted in rage, and she threw something down—a plastic bowl, which clattered harmlessly on the pavement.

“Don’t you dare blame me for your mess!” she screamed. “You’re the one who gambled away everything we had. You’re the one who’s ruined this family!”

Betsy’s cries grew louder, a frantic backdrop to the shouting match. Jahnny’s stomach churned as he glanced up at the broken window. He wanted to yell at them to stop, to do something to make it all go away, but he was frozen in place, his small frame trembling in the cold.

“Come on, kid,” Garth growled suddenly, grabbing Jahnny’s arm. “We’re done here.”

Jahnny stumbled as Garth dragged him down the street, away from the apartment building and the sound of his mother’s yelling. He looked back once, catching a glimpse of Marie leaning out of the window, her face still contorted with anger.

The night swallowed them up, the shadows growing darker as they left the warmth of the apartment’s light behind.

---

A short while later, Garth had broken them into one of the many abandoned homes along the outskirts of their block. And as Jahnny lay awake on the stiff mattress they’d borrowed for the night from one of the other homeless, staring at the water-stained ceiling above him. The faint sound of sirens echoed in the distance, a constant reminder of the world outside.

Beside him, Garth snored softly, his face slack and peaceful in the dim light. It was strange, seeing him like this—so calm, so human. Jahnny turned his head, studying the faint lines on his father’s face.

He thought about the rock, the way Garth had hurled it with such force, such anger. It wasn’t just at Marie, Jahnny realized. It was at everything—at the city, at the bills they couldn’t pay, at the way life seemed to close in on them a little more every day.

But who could he blame for that? The city didn’t care. The gangs didn’t care. Even Marie, as strong as she was, couldn’t fight the weight of it all.

Maybe the rock wasn’t about breaking a window, Jahnny thought. Maybe it was about breaking something else—something bigger, something that had been crushing Garth for as long as Jahnny could remember.

“Why can’t you just stop?” Jahnny whispered, his voice too soft for Garth to hear. But even as he asked, he knew the answer. His father didn’t know how to stop.

Chapter 6: Time to Pay

The morning light trickled through the broken slats of the boarded-up windows, casting fractured patterns on the dusty floor. Jahnny woke to the sound of heavy footsteps, still groggy from the restless night on the cold, hard ground. His father’s arm had been draped over him, heavy and protective, but now that weight was ripped away in an instant.

The commotion was startling. Jahnny scrambled upright, blinking in confusion. His father, Garth, was yanked to his feet by two massive men. They were built like walls, their faces hard and devoid of mercy. One had a scar slashing down his cheek, the other wore a gold chain so thick it seemed like armor.

“Wha—what the hell?” Garth spluttered, struggling against their iron grip. “Get your hands off me!”

But his protests were ignored. Jahnny’s heart pounded in his chest as he shrank back against the wall, his small frame trembling. Then, a voice cut through the tension, calm but cold enough to chill the room.

“Well, well, look who we have here,” the man drawled.

Big Ray emerged from the shadows like a figure carved out of Blenc itself—hulking, unyielding, and devoid of mercy. His neatly trimmed beard and tailored coat seemed almost absurd in their precision, contrasting sharply with the decay that clung to everything else in the room. Yet they only added to his menace, as if he were both predator and king of this crumbling jungle.

Ray’s eyes gleamed, not just with cruelty, but with the weight of someone who had outlasted countless others in this unforgiving city. His presence filled the room like Blenc’s smog—thick, choking, and impossible to escape. He didn’t just belong to Blenc; he was Blenc, every crack in the pavement and every boarded-up window given human form.

“Ray,” Garth stammered, his bravado crumbling. “Listen, man, I was gonna—”

“You were gonna what, Garth?” Ray interrupted, his voice smooth as silk. He stepped closer, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete floor. “Gonna finally pay me what you owe? Because that’d be a first.”

“I just need more time,” Garth pleaded, his voice cracking. “I’ve got a plan—”

Before he could finish, the scar-faced man landed a punch to Garth’s stomach, doubling him over. Jahnny cried out, instinctively lurching forward, but froze when Ray turned his gaze on him.

“Stay put, kid,” Ray said, his tone a warning and a promise. Jahnny sank back to the ground, his small hands gripping the edges of his tattered coat.

“You’ve been owing me for months, Garth,” Ray said, his voice a low rumble that carried the weight of inevitability. He paced deliberately, his polished shoes clicking on the cracked concrete, each step a reminder of how Blenc rewarded only those who crushed others underfoot.

“Months of excuses,” he continued, his tone almost bored, as if he were reciting a script he’d memorized long ago. “Months of bullshit. You know, Garth, I’ve been patient. Haven’t I?” He gestured to the two men flanking him, their expressions as cold and impassive as tombstones.

“Y-yeah,” Garth wheezed, clutching his stomach, his voice barely audible.

“But patience doesn’t pay my bills,” Ray said, his eyes narrowing. “And it sure as hell doesn’t keep my boys fed.” He glanced at his men, who cracked their knuckles in perfect synchronization, like machinery built to enforce Blenc’s brutal order.

Ray leaned down, meeting Garth’s eyes. “You’re not just a debtor, Garth. You’re part of the cycle. Blenc eats people like you as partial snacks—and I’m just the one holding the fork.”

“No, no, no, please!” Garth begged as the beating began. The punches came heavy and relentless, each one echoing through the empty building. Jahnny could only watch, his eyes wide with terror, as his father was reduced to a whimpering heap on the floor.

“Stop!” Jahnny’s voice cracked as he finally found the courage to speak. “Please, stop! You’re hurting him!”

Ray turned to look at Jahnny, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “Hurting him, huh? Kid, your old man’s been hurting himself for years. This is just catching up to him.”

“Don’t,” Garth croaked, spitting blood onto the floor. “Don’t touch the boy.”

Ray crouched down to Jahnny’s level, his large frame towering even as he lowered himself. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, kid,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “You’re worth too much to me for that.”

Jahnny recoiled, pressing himself tighter against the wall. “What do you mean?”

Ray leaned closer, his breath warm and sour, his breath a mix of mint and whiskey. “A kid like you? Small, scrappy, kinda cute when you’re not cryin’? You’re a goldmine. People’ll pay a lot for a kid like you to run errands, do odd jobs… whatever they need.”

“No,” Jahnny whispered, shaking his head. “No, I’m not gonna—”

“You don’t get a choice, boy,” Ray said, his voice hardening. “Your daddy here owes me, and you’re how I’m gonna collect.”

“Leave him alone,” Garth rasped from the floor, struggling to sit up. “I’ll get you the money, Ray. I swear.”

“You’ve been swearing that for months,” Ray shot back, standing to his full height. “And I’m done believing you.”

Ray’s sharp nod was like a judge’s gavel, sealing the sentence. His men grabbed Jahnny, lifting him as easily as if he weighed nothing at all. The boy kicked and squirmed, his small cries swallowed by the oppressive silence of the alley, but the men’s grip was unyielding—like Blenc’s grip on everyone who thought they could escape it.

“Let him go!” Garth shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. He clawed at the floor, trying to pull himself up, but another kick to his ribs sent him spawling.

Ray turned back once, his expression unreadable. “Garth,” he said, almost gently, “you’ve always been a part of Blenc, just like me. But the difference is, I don’t pretend to be anything else. That’s why I win. And that’s why you lose.” With a clap, Ray dropped a hundred dollar bill on the ground. “You’ve got forty-eight hours to pay up. After that, the boy starts earning your keep.”

Jahnny’s chest heaved as he was shoved outside, the cold bite of the morning burned the tear streaks that continued to run. He twisted in their grip, his wide eyes locking onto his father’s battered form through the broken doorway. “Dad! Don’t let them take me! Dad!”

But Garth didn’t respond. Unable to move, he laid there, beaten and broken, slumped against the wall, only watching as Ray and his men hauled Jahnny down the street.

In that moment, the illusion shattered. The protective, larger-than-life figure Jahnny had always seen in his father crumbled to nothing. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the scrape of his shoes against the pavement, and Ray’s chilling laughter echoing in his ears.

“Stop squirming, kid,” Scar-Face growled, his voice low and menacing. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

Jahnny’s lip quivered, but he refused to cry out again. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. His eyes darted around the deserted street, searching for anyone who might help, but the early morning kept most people inside. The few that were out—a woman hurrying to her car, an old man sweeping his stoop—turned their gazes away. Nobody wanted to get involved.

Ray followed behind them, his hands tucked casually into his coat pockets. He strolled as if they were taking a morning walk, his polished shoes tapping against the pavement. “You’re a lucky kid,” he said, his voice carrying over the sound of Jahnny’s shuffling feet. “Most folks your age don’t get to learn how the world really works until they’re much older.”

Jahnny turned his head, glaring at Ray through tear-filled eyes. “You’re a bad man.”

Ray laughed, a low, rumbling sound that sent shivers down Jahnny’s spine. “Bad? Maybe. But your old man? He’s the one who brought you into this mess. Don’t blame me for cleaning it up.”

Jahnny’s fists clenched at his sides. His father’s bloodied face flashed in his mind, but so did the anger in his mother’s voice last night. He wasn’t sure who to be mad at anymore. It all felt like a terrible dream he couldn’t wake up from.

They turned a corner into a narrow alley, the dim light barely reaching the cracked walls and overflowing dumpsters. Scar-Face shoved Jahnny forward, forcing him to stumble to his knees.

“Here’s fine,” Ray said, stopping in a narrow alley where the walls seemed to close in on all sides. The distant glow of a streetlamp barely touched his face as he crouched in front of Jahnny. His presence filled the space, a living embodiment of Blenc’s inescapable rot.

“Listen up, kid,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “I don’t wanna hurt you. You’re valuable—alive, kickin’, and doing whatever you’re told. But Blenc don’t give anyone a free ride. It takes what it wants, and I’m just here to make sure it gets paid.”

Ray gestured to the crumbling walls around them, streaked with graffiti and grime. “You see this place? This alley? It’s not just bricks and trash. It’s Blenc. It’s everything your daddy’s running from. Everything you’re running toward. And you? You’re part of it now.”

Jahnny glared up at him, his chest heaving. “I hate you.”

Ray chuckled again, shaking his head. “That’s fine. You’ll get over it. What you need to know is this: your old man’s a loser. Always has been, always will be. He’s got nothing left to give me but you.”

“You’re lying,” Jahnny spat, the fire in his voice surprising even himself.

Ray smirked. “Am I? You think he’s gonna come up with my money in the next two days? He can’t even keep the lights on in that dump you call home. If he cared about you, he wouldn’t have put you in this position.”

Jahnny didn’t answer. He stared at the ground, his small hands clutching the fabric of his pants. Deep down, he knew Ray wasn’t lying. But he didn’t want to believe it.

“Here’s how this is gonna work,” Ray said, his voice smooth as oil. He straightened, towering over Jahnny like one of Blenc’s looming smokestacks—tall, dark, and choking the life out of everything below.

“You’re gonna stay with me for a while,” Ray continued, adjusting the thick gold chain around his neck. It caught the faint light, glinting like a predator’s teeth. “Do some odd jobs, run some errands. Nothing too hard for a smart kid like you. And if your dad pays up? You go home. If not…” He paused, letting the silence stretch until it felt like a noose tightening around Jahnny’s tiny frame.

The boy’s breath hitched, his eyes fixed on the chain, he could feel his hands becoming clamy. It swung slightly with Ray’s movements, its weight seeming to grow heavier with every word. Jahnny clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The smell of garbage and diesel filled the air, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the sickening weight of Ray’s offer.

“You can’t do this,” Jahnny said, his voice trembling. “It’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Ray said, a sharp laugh escaping his lips. He crouched down to Jahnny’s level, his gold chain swinging like a pendulum. “Kid, fair doesn’t exist here. Blenc doesn’t do fair. Blenc does survival. Fair’s just a word people use when they’re too weak to take what they need.”

He stood again, towering over Jahnny, his shadow swallowing the boy whole. “Blenc’s a machine, and you’re just another gear. Turn the way you’re supposed to, or you’ll get ground to dust. That’s how this city works. That’s how it’s always worked.” With a sudden frown appearing across his face, as if he smelled something awful, he gestured towards his men to take the boy.

Jahnny’s heart sank as Scar-Face and Gold-Chain grabbed him again, lifting him off the ground. He thrashed and kicked, his cries echoing off the walls of the alley, but their strength was unyielding.

The van waited just around the corner, its black paint swallowing the dim light like a void. The back doors swung open with a metallic groan, revealing an interior that felt more like a trap than a vehicle. Empty bottles and crumpled wrappers littered the floor, their sour smells mixing with the faint scent of rust and oil.

Jahnny hesitated, his thin figure framed against the dark rectangle of the van’s opening. It yawned before him like a hungry beast, ready to swallow him whole before suddenly he found himself being thrown inside like a sack of potatoes, his body hitting the cold metal floor with a thud.

The doors slammed shut behind him, plunging him into darkness. He scrambled to sit up, his small hands feeling for an escape, but the sound of the locks clicking into place dashed his hopes.

As the engine roared to life, Jahnny hugged his knees to his chest, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. His mind raced with thoughts of his family, of his home, of the little bottle of pills still tucked in his pocket. His whole world had been turned upside down in a matter of hours, and he had no idea how to fix it.

In the front seat, Ray lit a cigar, the glow of the embers briefly illuminating his face. “Don’t worry, kid,” he called back, his voice smooth and heavy, like tar seeping into cracks. “You’ll get used to it. Everyone does.”

The words hung in the air like the smog outside, thick and suffocating. Ray didn’t look back as he spoke, his broad shoulders framed by the dim light filtering into the van. “Blenc’s got a way of breaking people in—kids like you, men like your dad, it don’t matter. You’ll learn real quick there’s only one way to survive here.”

Jahnny didn’t answer, his small frame trembling as the van rumbled to life. The stench of old cigarettes and grease filled his nose, and the hum of the engine vibrated through him like the music that played at church the one time his mom took him and his sisters. His fingers curled into fists in his lap, Ray’s laughter followed him, low and cruel, wrapping around him like the city itself, a reminder that escape wasn’t an option.

“You think I’ll just do what you say,” Jahnny muttered, his voice barely audible.

Scar-Face laughed from the front seat. “What’s that, boy? Speak up.”

Jahnny’s throat tightened, but he forced the words out. “I’m not scared of you.”

The laughter stopped. Scar-Face turned in his seat, his sharp eyes locking onto Jahnny. “You’re not scared?” he repeated, his tone icy. “That’s cute. But you will be. Blenc’s got a way of teaching little punks like you some respect.”

Jahnny didn’t answer. His heart pounded, but he held Scar-Face’s gaze, his fists clenched tighter. Deep down, he knew he was scared—terrified, even. But he wasn’t going to let them see it. Not now. Not ever. Never again.

Chapter 7: No Heroes

Some hours had passed since the van stopped and Jahnny was thrown into a skywalk way in the tower that Ray’s men seemed to use as their primary base of operations. His knowledge of the location didn’t much matter, even if he somehow got the cops involved, Jahnny knew from his father’s drunken rants that Ray held several higher police offers under his pay.

His only company within this walkway was the distant hums of traffic and the occasional drip of water from a rusted pipe. He had already looked for escapes, there was none, none that didn’t involve taking a fall from several stories, anyways.

Jahnny sat on the cold ground, his knees pulled to his chest, and his back against the wall of planters that lined the edge of the walkway, based on the appearence, someone had tried to make a small green-house out of the walkway, using it’s girdle of glass and formerlly clear-plastic for more than to modern aesthetic.

But all the plants that had once been in here was dead, now. Laying across the floor and withered at their roots, encompassing him in death.

His arm throbbed where one of Ray’s men had shoved him, but he barely felt it now. Instead his mind was focused on the graffitti across the glass before him. The sun shining through it, producing a dampened stain glassed effect of colors over him. Most of it was angry scrawls—gang tags, curses, names no one cared about. No one knew about. But one drawing caught his eye: a crude sketch of a bird, its wings outstretched as if it were trying to take flight. Beyond it’s symbalcy, was the impressive feat that it wasn’t painted from the inside, but instead the outside, where there was no surface for one to stand or even balance from while making the piece.

In the back of his mind, Jahnny could hear the whistles of the bird as his fingers brushed the pill bottle in his pocket. He thought about his father’s promises, his mother’s anger, and Ray’s cruel laughter. Everyone was fighting to survive, but no one was winning. Not his dad. Not his mom. Not him.

The thought made his chest ache, but he didn’t cry. Instead, he stared at the bird, focused, its wings smeared and broken. “You’re not gonna fly, are you?” he whispered. His voice was steady, but the bitterness in it surprised him.

He pushed himself to his feet, his jaw tightening. “Fine. If no one’s gonna help, I’ll figure it out myself.”

And then voices. From outside the door he was thrown in from, they were returning, likely for him as there wasn’t anything of note in the exposed walkway. He readied himself, widening his feet, just like he had seen the boxers do in the movies. He raised his hands, and that’s when he heard the laugh. It wasn’t just his men, but Big Ray himself.

---

Jahnny’s fingers ached as he scrubbed the grease-streaked floor of Ray’s hideout, a dimly lit garage that smelled of motor oil, cigarettes, and stale beer. The concrete was ice cold beneath his knees, the thin fabric of his jeans doing little to protect him from the chill. His stomach growled fiercely, reminding him that he’d only had a half-eaten sandwich since yesterday morning.

The chain around his ankle clinked with every movement, its length barely enough to let him reach the sink in the corner. He had tried pulling at it the first night, desperate to get free, but the rusted metal was stronger than it looked, and his raw, bruised hands had paid the price.

“Yo, kid!” a voice barked from the other side of the garage.

Jahnny flinched, his head snapping up to see Scar-Face lounging in a rickety chair by the door. The man was flipping through a deck of cards, his scarred lip curling into a sneer. “You missed a spot,” he said, pointing at a dark streak of grease near the tires of an old truck.

Jahnny gritted his teeth but didn’t say anything. He couldn’t afford to talk back—not after yesterday, when Ray had given him a harsh lesson about “respect.” The memory of the slap still burned on his cheek, and the humiliation of being reduced to tears in front of the gangsters stung even more.

He shuffled over to the spot Scar-Face had pointed out, dragging the chain with him. His small hands worked the sponge over the grime, the water in the bucket turning black as it soaked up the filth.

“Faster,” Scar-Face said, his voice dripping with mockery. “You think we got all day for this shit?”

Jahnny’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep scrubbing. The humiliation of being barked at like a dog was overwhelming, but he didn’t dare stop. He couldn’t risk making Ray angry again.

The garage door rumbled open, letting in a blast of cold air that made Jahnny shiver. Ray strolled in, his long coat billowing behind him. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a business meeting, his sharp suit and polished shoes a stark contrast to the dingy surroundings.

“Morning, gentlemen,” Ray said, his voice smooth and commanding. He glanced down at Jahnny, who quickly lowered his gaze to the floor. “And how’s my little helper doing today?”

“He’s slow,” Scar-Face replied, tossing the cards onto the table. “Lazy, too.”

Ray chuckled, pulling a cigar from his pocket. “He’ll learn.” He crouched down, his cold eyes locking onto Jahnny’s. “Won’t you, kid?”

Jahnny nodded quickly, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Good.” Ray patted his cheek in a way that was almost kind, but the gesture made Jahnny’s skin crawl. “Keep at it, and maybe I’ll let you have some real food tonight.”

The promise of food was enough to keep Jahnny’s hands moving, even as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He bit down on his lip, refusing to let them fall. Crying wouldn’t change anything.

Ray straightened up, turning his attention to Scar-Face. “Any word from Garth?”

“Not a peep,” Scar-Face replied, lighting a cigarette. “I told you, boss, the guy’s a deadbeat. Ain’t no way he’s coming up with your money.”

Ray exhaled a plume of smoke, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe. But I’ve seen desperate men pull off miracles before. Let’s give him one more day. If he doesn’t show…” He glanced down at Jahnny, a cruel smile curling his lips. “Well, I’m sure we can find other ways to make him useful.”

Jahnny’s stomach turned at the implication, but he kept his head down, scrubbing furiously as if he could erase himself from the room.

“Hey, boss,” another voice called out. Gold-Chain appeared in the doorway, holding a paper bag. “Got breakfast.”

Ray raised an eyebrow. “For me, I assume?”

Gold-Chain shrugged. “Thought maybe the kid could use a bite. Looks like he’s gonna keel over.”

Ray glanced at Jahnny, who dared to look up, hope flickering in his wide eyes. After a moment, Ray nodded. “Fine. Give him half.”

Gold-Chain walked over, setting the bag on the floor in front of Jahnny. He pulled out a slightly squished egg sandwich, tearing it in two and handing the smaller piece to the boy.

Jahnny muttered a quiet “thank you” before devouring the sandwich in a few bites. It wasn’t much, but the taste of warm food was enough to give him a glimmer of strength.

“Don’t get used to it, kid,” Gold-Chain said, ruffling Jahnny’s hair in a way that was almost affectionate. “You’re still on thin ice.”

Jahnny swallowed hard, nodding as he returned to his scrubbing. His stomach still ached with hunger, but at least it wasn’t empty anymore.

The hours dragged on, filled with the sound of clinking chains and muttered orders. By the time the sun began to set, Jahnny’s hands were raw and blistered, his knees aching from kneeling on the hard floor. But he didn’t complain. He couldn’t afford to.

As night fell, Ray and his crew gathered around a table, counting stacks of cash and planning their next moves. Jahnny was left to huddle in the corner, the chain around his ankle a constant reminder of his captivity.

He stared at the dim bulb hanging from the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts of escape. But every time he thought he had a plan, he’d glance at the men and lose his nerve. They were too big, too strong, and too ruthless.

For now, all he could do was wait and hope that someone—anyone—would come to save him. But deep down, he wasn’t sure anyone would.

---

Jahnny sat on the edge of an old wooden crate, his knees pulled up to his chest, the chain around his ankle biting into his skin. The garage had grown quieter as the hours ticked by, but the weight of the silence pressed on him like a storm about to break. Ray stood across the room, leaning casually against the hood of an old car, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

The only sound was the faint crackle of the cigarette paper as Ray inhaled, letting the smoke curl lazily out of his mouth. His cold, calculating gaze was locked onto Jahnny, making the boy feel like a mouse caught in the claws of a predator.

“Y’know,” Ray began, his voice calm, almost friendly, “your old man’s got about… fifteen minutes left.” He tapped the face of his silver watch, its gleaming surface catching the dim light. “Fifteen minutes to walk through that door with my money, or…” He trailed off, letting the silence hang heavy in the air.

Jahnny swallowed hard, his throat dry and aching. “He’s… he’s coming,” he whispered, more to himself than to Ray.

Ray smirked, shaking his head. “Kid, you got a lot to learn about the world. Rule number one?” He raised a finger, his voice dropping an octave. “Ain’t no heroes. Not in real life.”

The words hit Jahnny like a punch to the gut. He wanted to argue, to scream that his dad would come through, that his family wouldn’t abandon him. But deep down, a seed of doubt had already taken root.

Ray pushed off the car, tossing the cigarette butt to the ground and crushing it under his polished shoe. He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, each one echoing in the stillness.

“Here’s the thing, kid.” He crouched down to Jahnny’s level, his sharp features cast in shadow. “Your daddy? He’s a loser. Always has been, always will be. And you?” He grabbed Jahnny’s chin, forcing the boy to look him in the eye. “You’re just collateral.”

Jahnny yanked his head away, his small fists clenching at his sides. “He’ll come,” he said again, his voice trembling but defiant.

Ray chuckled, standing back up. “We’ll see.” He glanced at his watch again, making a show of counting down the seconds. “Ten minutes. Nine. Eight…”

The countdown felt like it stretched on forever, each number a weight pressing harder on Jahnny’s chest. He stared at the door, willing it to burst open, for his father to come storming in like some kind of savior. But the door remained closed, the garage silent except for the sound of Ray’s voice.

“Three. Two. One.” Ray clapped his hands together, the sound reverberating through the space. “Time’s up.”

Jahnny’s heart sank. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He wouldn’t give Ray the satisfaction.

“Well, can’t say I’m surprised,” Ray said, turning to Scar-Face, who was lounging nearby with a toothpick in his mouth. “Make a note, boys. Garth’s officially a no-show.”

Scar-Face snickered, pulling a notepad from his pocket. “Big shocker there.”

Ray turned back to Jahnny, his smile sharp as a knife. “But hey, don’t worry. Your dad might be useless, but you?” He gestured dramatically, like a showman unveiling his masterpiece. “You’re worth something.”

Jahnny’s stomach twisted. “What… what do you mean?”

Ray’s smile widened. “You got yourself a booking, kid. Top dollar. Local bigwig wanted some time with a fresh face, and you? You fit the bill perfectly.”

Jahnny’s blood ran cold. He didn’t fully understand what Ray was saying, but the way the man’s words dripped with malice made his skin crawl. “No… no, you can’t…”

“Oh, but I can,” Ray said, his tone mocking. “And the best part? By the time the night’s over, your daddy’s debt will be halfway paid. Ain’t that something?”

Jahnny shook his head, panic rising in his chest. “Please, don’t… I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you want, just—just don’t—”

Ray raised a hand, silencing him. “Relax, kid. It’s business, nothing personal.”

Scar-Face appeared with a bucket of water and a threadbare towel, tossing them at Jahnny’s feet. “Clean yourself up,” he said with a smirk. “Boss wants you looking presentable.”

Jahnny hesitated, his hands trembling as he reached for the bucket. The water was ice cold, sending shivers through his body as he scrubbed at his face and arms. He tried to wash away the grime, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t shake the feeling of dirt clinging to his skin.

“Good enough,” Scar-Face said, yanking the towel away before Jahnny could fully dry himself.

Ray snapped his fingers, and two of his men stepped forward, unlocking the chain from Jahnny’s ankle. For a brief moment, hope flickered in his chest—maybe he could run, maybe he could escape—but the men grabbed him firmly by the arms, their grips like iron.

They led him out of the garage and toward the black van parked outside. The cool night air bit at his damp skin, but it was nothing compared to the fear coursing through him.

As they shoved him into the van’s backseat, Ray leaned in, his face inches from Jahnny’s. “Remember, kid,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “Ain’t no heroes.”

The door slammed shut, and the van’s engine roared to life. Jahnny curled up on the seat, his heart pounding in his ears. He didn’t know where they were taking him, but one thing was certain—he was completely alone.

---

The van rumbled down the uneven road, the headlights slicing through the dark. Jahnny sat stiffly in the backseat, his small frame trembling as he clutched the edge of the tattered bench. The two men in the front seats chatted casually, their voices blending with the hum of the tires on the cracked asphalt.

Jahnny’s mind raced. Every bump in the road jostled him, his fear mounting with every mile that passed. He stared at the dim outlines of the buildings they sped by, the city growing more desolate, more industrial. He wasn’t sure where they were taking him, but his instincts screamed it wasn’t anywhere good.

The faint smell of gasoline filled the van, mingling with the musty scent of old upholstery. Jahnny closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing, willing himself not to cry.

A sharp jerk threw him sideways, his head smacking into the cold metal wall of the van. “Watch it, idiot!” the man in the passenger seat barked, glaring at the driver.

“Shut up,” the driver snapped. “These damn potholes are everywhere.”

Suddenly, there was a deafening sound of squealing tires and a blaring horn. The driver yanked the wheel hard, sending the van careening to the left. Jahnny’s body slammed into the bench, his heart pounding in terror.

“What the hell is that!?” the passenger shouted.

Before Jahnny could make sense of what was happening, the world turned upside down. The van lurched violently, flipping over with a sickening crunch of metal. Jahnny screamed as he was thrown into the air, his small body tumbling like a ragdoll.

The van rolled once, twice, three times before coming to a screeching halt on its side. Shards of glass sparkled like stars in the dim interior, and the acrid smell of smoke and burning rubber filled Jahnny’s nose.

Pain exploded through his body as he lay crumpled against the side of the van. His head throbbed, and blood trickled down his forehead, sticky and warm. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint wail of sirens, but they seemed miles away.

The driver groaned, his body half-hanging out of the shattered windshield. The passenger was slumped against the dashboard, unconscious or worse. Jahnny tried to move, but his limbs felt like lead, every muscle screaming in protest.

Just as darkness began to creep into the edges of his vision, he heard a strange sound—almost like a whistle, high-pitched and jaunty. The van’s side door creaked loudly, the metal groaning as it was ripped open.

“My god!?” a voice exclaimed, high and cartoonish, like a character from one of the Saturday morning shows Jahnny used to watch. “Is that a child!?”

Through the haze of pain, Jahnny forced his eyes open. Standing in the doorway was a man—or at least, something resembling a man. His silhouette was tall and lanky, his limbs almost comically elongated. The faint glow of the streetlights illuminated his face, stretched into a wide grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Goodness me,” the man said, crouching down to peer inside. His head tilted at an unnatural angle, his movements fluid and unsettling. “What kind of sick game is this?”

Jahnny tried to speak, but his throat felt like sandpaper, his voice refusing to come out.

The man leaned closer, his face now inches from Jahnny’s. “Don’t you worry, little one,” he said, his tone oddly soothing despite the chaos around them. “You’re coming with me.”

Jahnny’s vision blurred, the world fading in and out. He felt the man’s long, cold fingers gently lift him from the wreckage, cradling him like a broken doll.

As the man carried him away from the ruined van, Jahnny’s mind clung to his last thought before unconsciousness overtook him: Was this another nightmare—or his savior?

Chapter 8: The New You, Kid

Jahnny stirred, the edges of consciousness creeping in like a cold draft under a door. His entire body felt heavy, leaden, and his arms ached in a way that told him something wasn’t right. His eyes fluttered open, blurry shapes swimming in the dim light.

The first thing he noticed was the chains. His arms were stretched above his head, his wrists locked in metal cuffs dangling from thick, rusted links. The sharp, chemical tang of antiseptic filled his nostrils, mingling with the scent of burnt metal and old wood. He tried to move, but the chains groaned ominously, holding firm.

“Hello?!” His voice cracked, weak and hoarse. Panic surged through him as he twisted, his body protesting with sharp jolts of pain.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop squirming,” a voice drawled from somewhere behind him. It was high-pitched, slippery, and strangely playful, like someone halfway through a drunken joke.

Jahnny craned his neck, his heart hammering as his vision focused on the source of the voice. A man stood across the room, leaning casually against a table littered with strange instruments. He was tall and boney, his skin pale and his eyes hidden behind a pair of red-tinted aviator sunglasses. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the ash dangerously long, teetering on the edge of falling.

“You’re awake, huh? That’s something,” the man said, pushing off the table with a lazy grace. He walked toward Jahnny, his gait uneven, as though the floor shifted beneath him. Under the leathery apron that hung from his neck down to his knees was a thin tattooed chest and a pair of pants three sizes two big held up by suspenders.

“W-where am I?” Jahnny stammered, his throat dry and his voice trembling.

The man grinned, showing teeth slightly too white to feel natural. “Where are you?” he echoed, his tone theatrical, as though he were hosting a game show. “Well, my little friend, you’re somewhere between alive and dead, between hell and the waiting room of the ER.”

He gestured grandly at the space around them. Jahnny’s eyes darted to the rest of the room, taking in the odd setup. It was a warehouse, clearly abandoned, with crumbling walls and exposed beams. But someone—no, this man—had turned it into a bizarre makeshift lab.

Strange machines hummed quietly in the corners, their blinking lights casting eerie dancing shadows. Tables were piled high with tangled wires, broken monitors, and jars filled with unidentifiable substances. The walls were lined with chipped, crumbled posters of half-naked women and vintage cars, as though someone had tried to decorate a morgue like a teenager’s bedroom.

“W-why am I here?” Jahnny managed to choke out.

The man paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, as though pondering an existential question. “Well, you’re here because I found you. Or rather, you found me. Well, not directly—your mangled little body was basically dumped at my feet by fate. You see, I’m the lucky guy who decided to save your sorry ass.”

Jahnny’s heart sank as the words sank in. “Save me?”

The man nodded, taking a long drag from his cigarette before flicking the ash onto the exposed mud floor. “Oh, yes. You were in pieces, kid. Pieces. Bones shattered like a ceramic piggy bank at a frat party. Blood leaking out of you like cheap whiskey through a busted flask.”

He moved closer, peering at Jahnny over the rim of his glasses. His eyes, small and darting, carried a gleam of blood shot manic energy. “Honestly, I was impressed you were even breathing when I found you. But that’s where I come in, my boy. I’ve got the skills, the tools, the magic touch to patch you up.”

Jahnny swallowed hard. “What did you do to me?”

The man leaned in, his grin widening as he reached up and tapped Jahnny’s arm lightly with his finger. “Oh, not much. Just stitched you back together with some borrowed tech. Let’s call it… experimental medicine.”

“Why am I chained up?” Jahnny asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The man rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh, please. You think I’m stupid? You’ve got that look. The scrappy little fighter. The runner. Last thing I need is you bolting out of here before I’m done with you.”

Jahnny’s stomach churned. “Done with me? What do you mean?”

“Relax, kid,” the man said, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m not some weirdo. Well, not in that way. I just need to make sure you’re stable before I cut you loose. You’re a bit of a science project now, and I like my projects to succeed.”

Jahnny struggled against the chains again, but his strength was gone. The man tilted his head, watching him with a mixture of amusement and pity.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said, stepping back toward his table. “Pain, fear, confusion—it’s all part of growing up. But hey, you’re alive, kid. That’s better than most. Huh!?”

As the man fiddled with a strange device on the table, Jahnny’s gaze drifted to a nearby reflective surface. His breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of himself for the first time. His arms were bandaged from wrist to shoulder, and patches of his skin were discolored and raw.

“I did what I could,” the man said without looking up. “But there’s only so much a body can handle. You’re alive, though. That’s what counts.”

Jahnny’s vision blurred as tears welled up. He wanted to scream, to fight, but he was too weak, too broken. The man’s voice cut through his despair, sharp and unwavering.

“Welcome to the new you, kid. You’re gonna hate it here.”

---

Jahnny blinked awake, his mind sluggish but swirling with unease. He couldn’t move—his body felt like it had turned to stone. His breath hitched as he realized he was no longer hanging from chains but strapped to a cold, flat surface. His wrists and ankles were secured with tight leather straps, and a faint hum filled the air.

“Ah, you’re back with us!” came the now-familiar voice. The man’s peculiar cadence filled the room, chipper and detached, as if this were just another Tuesday for him.

Jahnny tried to speak, but his mouth barely moved, his tongue heavy and uncooperative. The only sound he managed was a soft, garbled whimper.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” He said, leaning into view. His red-tinted glasses reflected the flickering overhead lights, and his grin was as crooked as ever. “You’re feeling all numb and fuzzy. That’s the good stuff, kid. Paralytics mixed with just enough of my special cocktail to keep you awake but oh-so-very still. Quite the ride, huh?!” The man said contorting his face into a wicken cartoonish smile.

He held up a syringe filled with an iridescent liquid, twirling it between his fingers like a baton. “I call this little beauty ‘Sandman’s Whisper.’ It’s not FDA-approved, but then again, neither am I.”

Jahnny’s eyes darted frantically around the room. He couldn’t turn his head, but he caught glimpses of metallic instruments glinting in the dim light, strange machines with tubes and blinking lights, and jars filled with odd, glowing substances.

“Relax, relax,” The stranger cooed, placing a hand on Jahnny’s forehead. “You’re in the capable hands of yours truly, James Philip-Charles Wolfegang the Third.” He paused, theatrically pointing a finger at the ceiling. “That’s Doctor James Philip-Charles Wolfegang the Third, in case you’re wondering. And yes, I gave myself the title. Credentials are for cowards!”

Jahnny wanted to scream, but his throat was a silent prison. His eyes widened as he heard the unmistakable sound of metal scraping against metal—a scalpel, perhaps, or something worse.

“Oh, don’t look so worried. James has it all under control,” the man said, slipping effortlessly into the third person as he arranged his tools. “James has been through worse scrapes than this. Let me tell you a little story, hmm? It’ll take your mind off… well, whatever it is you’re imagining right now.”

He chuckled, the sound low and conspiratorial. “So, there I was, working for ZerdinTech. Big, fancy corporation. Cutting-edge stuff. Genetic engineering, nanotech, neural implants—you name it, we did it. But James? James had a vision.”

Jahnny’s ears picked up a faint, wet sound—something being placed on a tray.

“See, James doesn’t just stop at boring things like fixing broken bones or curing diseases. Oh no. James goes deeper. Souls, kid. That’s what I was working on. The stuff that makes us us.”

His voice took on a dreamy quality, as though he were recounting a fond memory. “You ever think about what happens when you die? Where your little spark of life goes? Well, James thought about it a lot. Thought, ‘Hey, what if we could harness that? Bottle it, tweak it, maybe even stick IT in someone else?’ Imagine the possibilities!”

There was a sharp hiss of air, and Jahnny’s body jolted slightly. He felt a faint tugging sensation in his abdomen, though he couldn’t see what was happening.

“Turns out,” James continued, unfazed, “corporate overlords don’t like it when you start tinkering with the afterlife. Something about ‘ethical boundaries’ and ‘violating human dignity.’ Pfft. Small-minded fools.”

Jahnny’s heart pounded in his chest, the only part of him that seemed to move freely. He listened in mounting horror as James’s words spilled out in a torrent.

“So, James gets the boot. Kicked out, blacklisted, called a ‘danger to humanity.’ Can you believe it? Me?” He barked a laugh, slamming his fist lightly on the table. “But you know what? Screw ’em. James doesn’t need their shiny labs and endless funding. James makes do with what he’s got!”

There was a clink of glass, and James’s voice softened, almost tender. “And then… there’s you, kid. My latest little experiment. A real diamond in the rough. You were broken, busted, bleeding out. But James? James saw potential. You’re my canvas, Jahnny.”

Jahnny’s mind reeled as the words sank in. He could feel his body being shifted slightly, something cold and sharp brushing against his skin.

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” James said, his tone light but tinged with a hint of menace. “This isn’t just about saving your life. No, no, no. This is about pushing boundaries, breaking barriers. You’re going to be special, kid. Better, stronger, maybe even… indestructible.”

There was a sudden snap of metal, and Jahnny flinched as best he could. James let out a satisfied hum, his cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.

“Almost done here. Just a few more tweaks, and you’ll be good as new. Well, better than new, really. James doesn’t do things halfway.”

Jahnny felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple, his terror mounting as the reality of his situation became clearer with every word.

“There we go,” James said finally, stepping back with a flourish. “Another masterpiece by the great Doctor James. You’ll thank me later, kid. Or maybe not. Either way, you’re alive. For now.”

The hum of the machines around them grew louder, and Jahnny’s vision began to blur again as the drugs coursing through his veins pulled him back into unconsciousness. The last thing he heard was James muttering to himself, his voice equal parts giddy and ominous.

“Now, let’s see what you’re really made of…”

---

Jahnny’s world dissolved into a haze of fractured moments. Time became meaningless, a blur of dim lights and muffled sounds that felt both endless and fleeting. He faded in and out of consciousness, each return to awareness a cruel reminder of his fragile state.

Sometimes, he felt nothing at all, his body a distant memory as the drugs coursing through his veins dulled every sensation. Other times, the pain hit like a tidal wave, sharp and unrelenting, consuming him whole. His skin burned, his bones ached, and his very soul seemed to scream in protest. In those moments, he begged silently for the darkness to take him, for oblivion to sweep him away from this waking nightmare.

James’s voice punctuated the void, his words strange and nonsensical, like a mad poet reciting riddles. “Progress is pain, kid,” he’d say, or “You’ll thank me later, I promise—if you survive, that is.”

Jahnny had no sense of how long he endured this torment. Days? Weeks? Maybe longer. Each time he surfaced, the world around him was slightly different—a new machine humming, a different jar of glowing liquid on the table, James muttering to himself like a man possessed.

And through it all, Jahnny could only drift, a broken child caught in a current he couldn’t escape.

Chapter 9: Red Vineyard

The dim light filtered through Jahnny’s eyelids, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he stirred with clarity. A jolt of pain shot through his limbs as he shifted, but it was a sharp, tangible pain—a reminder that he could feel again. Slowly, he opened his eyes, his vision adjusting to the surroundings. The chains were gone. The sterile machines and cold steel table had vanished. He was lying on a threadbare mattress in the corner of the room, surrounded by scattered papers and tools, as if James had simply wandered off mid-project.

Jahnny sat up, wincing as his muscles screamed in protest. He inspected his arms and legs, now crisscrossed with scars and bruises, but intact. He flexed his fingers, relief flooding through him as they obeyed. For a moment, he just sat there, his breathing shallow and quick, his heart pounding like a drumbeat. He was alive—and alone.

A quick scan of the room revealed no sign of James. The familiar hum of machines was absent, replaced by an eerie stillness. His gaze fell on the door, slightly ajar, and his instincts screamed at him to move.

Barefoot and cautious, Jahnny crept to the door. His steps were quiet, but the rough wooden floor groaned under his weight. Beyond the door was a hallway, dimly lit and lined with peeling wallpaper. The air smelled of mildew and something metallic—blood, perhaps. He hesitated, his mind a whirlwind of fear and determination. Then, with a deep breath, he bolted.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have, and Jahnny’s bare feet slapped against the mud as he sprinted. He passed rooms filled with strange contraptions, shelves stacked with jars of unidentifiable substances, and walls adorned with incomprehensible scribbles. It all blurred together as he focused on the end of the corridor, where faint daylight seeped through a crack in the barn doors.

He shoved the doors open with all his might, and the blinding sunlight made him stumble. His eyes adjusted to reveal something unexpected—a sprawling garden of blood-red roses, their thorny vines twisting like serpents. The ground beneath him was soft and uneven, a mix of soil and overgrown roots.

Jahnny took a step, his foot sinking into the loose earth. Then he noticed the thorns. They glistened with a cruel sharpness, catching the sunlight like shards of glass. His next step sent a vine curling around his ankle, its barbs slicing into his skin. He let out a cry, falling forward into the roses, their razor-like thorns tearing at his arms and legs. He thrashed against the vines, but the more he struggled, the deeper they seemed to grip.

“Well, well, well,” came a familiar voice, sing-song and smug. “I had a hunch you’d try to make a run for it. And here you are, right on cue.”

Jahnny twisted his head to see James standing at the edge of the garden, a cigarette balanced between his lips and his red-tinted aviators glinting in the sunlight. He looked both amused and exasperated, like a parent catching their child stealing cookies before dinner.

“Do you have any idea how much work went into you?!” James gestured grandly, his hands sweeping toward Jahnny like he was presenting a work of art. “I mean, I understand. Really, I do. But running off? Into my Red Vineyard of all places? Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

Jahnny growled, struggling to free himself from the thorny vines. His arms were slick with blood, the crimson liquid pooling at his fingertips.

“Oh, those roses,” James said, smirking. “They’ve got a personality, don’t they? Like a good wine, full-bodied and sharp. I call this little patch my Red Vineyard. Fitting, don’t you think?”

Jahnny didn’t answer. He glared at James, defiance burning in his eyes despite his exhaustion.

James crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet as he stared at Jahnny through his tinted glasses. “I’m not mad, you know. Disappointed, sure, but not mad. I knew you’d do this. You’ve got that fire, that bite. A scrappy little underdog. That’s why I picked you.”

“Picked me?” Jahnny spat, his voice trembling. “You stole me.”

James shrugged, unbothered by the accusation. “Details, kid. Details. The point is, you’re special. And special things need special care.”

He stood, his lanky frame towering over Jahnny. “But if you’re determined to leave, I won’t stop you.” He gestured at the roses with a sweeping hand. “Go ahead. Fight your way out. Let’s see how far you get.”

Jahnny froze, his mind racing. Was this another test? A trap? Or was James genuinely letting him go? He looked down at the vines still coiled around his legs, their thorns biting into his flesh.

James sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. I’ll give you a hand.” He snapped his fingers, and the vines began to retract, slowly unwinding from Jahnny’s limbs. “There. Better?”

Jahnny scrambled to his feet, his legs shaky but functional. He stared at James, his heart pounding.

“Now, kid,” James said, his tone almost fatherly. “You’ve got a choice. Run, fight, do whatever you think you need to. But remember this—you owe me. And one day, you’ll pay that debt.”

Jahnny didn’t wait for another word. He turned and bolted, his feet pounding against the dirt path as he fled the barn, the roses, and the man who had turned his life into a waking nightmare. Behind him, James’s laughter echoed through the air, chilling and triumphant.

His legs burning with every desperate step. His breath came in heavy and winded, each inhalation filled with the metallic tang of blood and sweat.

But then, something changed.

A deafening roar tore through the air, followed by the rhythmic thumping of helicopter blades. Jahnny stumbled, his legs trembling under him as the sound grew closer. The earth beneath him vibrated, and before he could make sense of what was happening, the ground erupted in chaos. Boots pounded against the dirt, figures clad in dark tactical gear rushing past him in a blur.

“On the ground! Secure the area!” voices barked, sharp and authoritative.

Jahnny’s legs gave out, and he collapsed into the dirt. Dust filled his lungs as he tried to crawl forward, his fingers clawing at the ground. He could hear James in the distance, his tone shifting from casual arrogance to something unhinged.

“Oh, you think you can box me in? You think you’re clever?!” James’s voice rang out, high-pitched and manic. “Come on, then! Let’s see if you’ve got the guts!”

Gunfire erupted, shattering the tense air. Jahnny froze, his body pressed against the dirt as the cacophony unfolded around him. He didn’t dare look back, but the screams and explosions painted a vivid picture in his mind. James’s voice rose above it all, a chaotic symphony of rage and defiance.

“You want me? You’ll have to tear me apart piece by piece!”

Another explosion rattled the ground, and Jahnny flinched. His vision blurred with tears, his instincts screaming at him to run. But his body was done. He lay there, helpless, as the noise swirled into a distorted mess of chaos and terror.

---

Jahnny stumbled through the quiet field, his legs wobbling with every step. Each movement was a struggle, his body begging him to lie back down and give in to the pain. But the sight of Brassvale’s skyline—faint but undeniable in the distance—drove him forward. Home. He had to get home.

The field gave way to a cracked and uneven dirt road, lined by overgrown grass and weeds. The occasional rusted-out car or broken fence post punctuated the landscape, remnants of life long abandoned. Jahnny’s feet dragged, his toes stubbing against jagged rocks, sending fresh waves of pain shooting up his legs. His stomach growled loudly, a sharp reminder of how long it had been since he’d eaten.

As he neared the outskirts of the city, the faint hum of life began to stir around him—distant car horns, the murmur of voices, the metallic clang of machinery. It was comforting in its familiarity, but it also felt impossibly far away, as though he were watching the world through a foggy window.

The first real sign of civilization came in the form of a small market on the edge of a rundown neighborhood. Stalls were set up haphazardly, selling everything from fresh produce to cheap electronics. The air smelled of grilled meat and exhaust fumes, making Jahnny’s stomach clench with longing. He scanned the market, his eyes locking onto a cart loaded with apples, oranges, and bananas.

The vendor, a middle-aged man with a graying beard and a stained apron, was engrossed in conversation with a customer. Jahnny’s mouth watered as he edged closer to the cart, his heartbeat quickening. He glanced around nervously. No one was watching.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the smooth surface of an apple—and suddenly, it was in his hand. Not just in his hand; it had jumped into his grasp, as if pulled by a magnet. Jahnny stared at it, wide-eyed, his breath catching in his throat.

“What the…?” he whispered, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. But the vendor and his customer were still chatting, oblivious.

He didn’t waste another second. Stuffing the apple into his pocket, Jahnny turned and hurried away, his heart pounding. As he put distance between himself and the market, he pulled out the apple and took a large bite. The sweetness exploded in his mouth, a temporary balm for his exhaustion.

But the question lingered in his mind: What just happened?

---

Further down the road, Jahnny found himself in a quiet alley behind an old apartment complex. Laundry lines crisscrossed above him, clothes swaying gently in the breeze. His tattered, blood-stained shirt hung on his frame like a ghost, barely clinging to his thin body. He needed something clean. Something dry.

His eyes landed on a white T-shirt, oversized but clean, hanging near the edge of one line. He hesitated for a moment, guilt prickling at him, but desperation won out. He reached up, plucking the shirt from the line. It felt light, almost weightless in his hands.

As he pulled it over his head, the fabric seemed to lift on its own, resisting him. The hem floated upward, as if caught in an invisible breeze. Jahnny grabbed at it, tugging it back down, his movements frantic.

“Stay down,” he muttered, wrestling the shirt into place. Finally, it settled, though it felt oddly loose, as if it might float away again at any moment.

---

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Jahnny continued deeper into the city. The streets grew busier, filled with people hurrying home or heading out for the night. Jahnny stuck to the shadows, his small frame easily blending into the background. His bare feet ached with every step, the pavement rough and unforgiving.

Near a dumpster behind a closed convenience store, he spotted a pair of sneakers. They were old and worn, the laces frayed, but they were better than nothing. Jahnny crouched down, reaching for them—and stopped.

The shoes moved.

At first, it was subtle, a barely noticeable shift. But then they slid closer to him, as though pulled by an unseen force. Jahnny’s hand froze, his heart racing. He looked around, half expecting to see someone with a string, playing a prank. But the alley was empty.

Tentatively, he grabbed the shoes and slipped them onto his feet. They fit well enough, though the soles were thin and offered little protection. As he tightened the laces, small pebbles near his feet began to roll toward him. A larger rock wobbled, then tipped over, drawn to him like iron to a magnet.

Jahnny scrambled back, his breath hitching. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered.

---

By the time night fell, Jahnny was back on the main streets of Brassvale, weaving through the crowds. The city was alive with neon signs and the hum of activity, but Jahnny felt disconnected from it all, like a ghost wandering among the living. His body ached with exhaustion, his mind racing with questions.

The strange occurrences—food flying into his hand, the shirt floating, the rocks gravitating toward him—played over and over in his head. He couldn’t make sense of it. Was he imagining things? Was it some aftereffect of James’s experiments?

A streetlight flickered above him, casting his shadow in strange, distorted shapes. Jahnny glanced up, his eyes narrowing. The light seemed to pulse faintly, its glow almost reaching out toward him. He stepped back, and the sensation faded.

Shaking his head, Jahnny pressed on. The streets grew quieter as he moved closer to his neighborhood, the familiar sights and sounds tugging at something deep inside him. Home. He was almost home.

Chapter 10: No Matter Where You Go, There You Are

Jahnny stood at the base of the narrow staircase, staring up at the battered apartment complex. The flickering light above the entrance buzzed weakly, casting erratic shadows on the cracked concrete walls. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the familiar sight. After everything, he was finally home.

The broken kitchen window, its jagged edges like teeth against the evening sky, brought a wave of memories rushing back. He remembered his father’s furious face, the shattering glass, and his mother’s voice screaming through the night. Now, the silence that hung in the air was almost suffocating.

With trembling hands, Jahnny adjusted the baggy shirt on his thin frame and stepped forward. Each footfall on the creaky stairs echoed like a drumbeat, growing louder in his ears. The smells of the building—stale cooking grease, mildew, and a faint whiff of cigarettes—hit him with an intensity that made his chest tighten. He had once loathed those smells, but now, they felt like the most comforting thing in the world.

He reached the door to their apartment. The chipped paint and loose hinges hadn’t changed. He placed a hand on the doorknob, the metal cool against his palm. Taking a deep breath, he turned it, and the door creaked open.

---

The air inside was still, stagnant, and heavy with the weight of neglect. Dust clung to every surface, illuminated by the pale moonlight streaming through the broken window. The kitchen table was cluttered with empty bottles, crumpled newspapers, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. It was as though time had frozen since the night he left.

Jahnny stepped inside, his feet brushing against a crumpled soda can that rolled lazily across the floor. The sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet. His heart raced as he moved further in, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of life.

“Mom?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Lila? Clara? Betsy?”

Nothing. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator answered him.

Turning the corner into the living room, Jahnny froze. His breath hitched in his throat, and his vision blurred as his mind struggled to process what he was seeing.

Garth lay sprawled on the couch, his head tilted back, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood stained his shirt and pooled on the worn fabric beneath him, soaking into the cushions. A deep gash ran across his throat, jagged and merciless. The metallic scent of blood filled Jahnny’s nostrils, making his stomach churn.

“No…” Jahnny whispered, his knees buckling. He stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the edge of the coffee table. “No, no, no…”

His father’s lifeless face stared back at him, a haunting contrast to the loud, fiery man he had known. Jahnny’s chest tightened, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His body shook violently as he backed away, his legs giving out beneath him. He collapsed onto the floor, curling into himself as the room spun around him.

---

Minutes passed—maybe hours. Time felt meaningless. Jahnny’s mind raced, replaying every argument, every fight, every drunken tirade. His father was gone. Dead. But that wasn’t what scared him the most. What scared him was the silence.

Where was his mother? Where were his sisters?

He forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. Slowly, he moved toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Each step felt like wading through quicksand, his body weighed down by dread. The hallway stretched endlessly before him, the doors at the end looming like dark sentinels.

Jahnny pushed open the first door. His and Lila’s room. Empty. The bed was unmade, her clothes scattered across the floor. A stuffed bear sat in the corner, its button eyes staring at him accusingly.

Slowly wading his way to the second door, his sister’s former room, now acting as a office for his parents, the few times they actually used it as it had also become a type of nursery, Jahnny’s hands shook as he reached for the doorknob. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. He hesitated, his mind screaming at him not to open it. But he had to.

The door creaked open, revealing a scene of chaos. The crib was overturned, the blankets stained with something dark and sticky. Betsy’s small mobile dangled uselessly from the ceiling, its gentle melody replaced by a suffocating silence.

Jahnny stumbled back, his body trembling uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His home—his family—was gone. Destroyed.

And then, something inside him snapped.

The room seemed to shift, the air growing heavy and thick. Objects around him began to tremble, vibrating with an unseen force. Jahnny barely noticed as the broken mobile lifted off the ground, spinning wildly in the air before slamming against the wall. The crib followed, crashing into the ceiling with a deafening crack.

The floor beneath him shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing out from where he stood. Jahnny’s vision blurred, his tears mingling with a strange, electric light that seemed to radiate from his very being.

The apartment building groaned as if alive, the walls trembling with the force of Jahnny’s anguish. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and the very foundation seemed to quake. The power surged within him, uncontrollable and raw, fueled by a rage and despair he couldn’t contain.

And then, with one final, explosive burst, the building began to collapse.

The world around him crumbled, the ceiling caving in as the walls buckled. Jahnny stood in the center of it all, his small frame silhouetted against the chaos. And as the rubble closed in around him, darkness took over.

For the first time in days, Jahnny felt nothing.

As the chaos consumed the room, a low, gravelly voice cut through the cacophony, sharp and disbelieving.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Is that… the kid?”

Jahnny spun toward the sound, his heart pounding against his ribs. In the corner of the crumbling living room stood Scar-Face, one of Big Ray’s enforcers, one of the men he became very familiar with in his time with Ray. His hulking frame leaned against the fractured doorway, his face a grim canvas of twisted flesh and scars. His eyes burned with a mix of disbelief and recognition.

“What the hell’s goin’ on in here?” Scar-Face muttered, stepping forward, his boots crunching over shattered glass and splintered wood. “Ain’t no way you made it out alive, kid. I saw that crash, you were done for.”

Jahnny froze, his body trembling. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as the lingering power hummed beneath his skin, begging for release. He didn’t respond—he couldn’t. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind teetering on the edge of fury and fear.

Scar-Face tilted his head, a cruel smirk curling his lips. “You’re lookin’ different. What happened? You finally grow some balls out there, or is this some kinda ghost story?”

Jahnny’s eyes locked onto Scar-Face’s, his young face hardening. The memory of the van, the chains, the agony—all of it came rushing back in a wave of rage. The power surged again, objects around him vibrating violently as the air thickened with tension.

“Answer me, kid,” Scar-Face growled, his tone shifting to something darker, more dangerous. “What the hell are you?”

Jahnny’s voice, raw and trembling with both fear and anger, finally broke free. “I’m… not… a ghost.”

Scar-Face chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “No? Then what are you gonna do, huh? Little punk like you? You think you scare me?”

But as the words left his mouth, the room seemed to pulse. The remaining furniture flew backward, slamming against the walls as if an invisible force had shoved them aside. The floor beneath them cracked and groaned, and Scar-Face’s smug grin faltered for the first time.

“What the—” Scar-Face started, but he didn’t finish.

Jahnny’s small frame stood firm amidst the destruction, his eyes blazing with an unnatural light. “You should’ve left me alone,” he said, his voice eerily calm for a child.

Before Scar-Face could react, the floor beneath him buckled, a surge of gravity slamming him down with bone-crushing force. He cried out, his voice a mixture of pain and terror, as the power enveloped him, holding him down like an unrelenting hand. His knees were completely shattered during the initial weight of the force, causing him to let out a whiny scream.

Jahnny stepped closer, his face shadowed by the flickering light of the collapsing apartment. “You called me weak,” he said, his tone cold. “What do you think now?”

Scar-Face struggled, his body pinned against the ground, but the power held him firm. His wide eyes locked onto Jahnny’s, filled with a primal fear that he’d never felt before. “Kid, listen—”

“You listen,” Jahnny interrupted, his voice rising. “You’re not the one in control anymore.”

The weight of the moment bore down on Jahnny as he stood over Scar-Face, his small frame trembling but unyielding. The power coursing through him was no longer just an abstract feeling—it was tangible, raw, and terrifying. Scar-Face, pinned to the floor by an invisible force, gasped and squirmed, his once-confident sneer replaced by sheer terror.

“Kid! I didn’t mean it!” Scar-Face wheezed, his face turning red as the gravity pressed down harder. “I was just jokin’, alright?!”

Jahnny didn’t respond. His breathing was ragged, his fists clenched tight, the weight of every cruel word, every moment of pain, and every ounce of fear surging forward in this one act of retribution. Scar-Face’s pleas became muffled as the sound of creaking wood and shifting debris filled the room. Jahnny’s focus was absolute.

Then, like a beacon piercing through the storm, a sound shattered his concentration: a faint, high-pitched cry. A baby’s cry.

Jahnny’s head snapped toward the source. His grip on the power wavered, and Scar-Face gasped for breath, the crushing force lifting just enough for him to cough and sputter. Jahnny barely noticed as he stumbled toward his parent’s bedroom, his heart pounding in his ears.

The door was ajar, swinging slightly in the draft of the ruined apartment. Inside, the dim light revealed a scene that turned Jahnny’s blood cold. His mother, Marie, lay sprawled on the bed, her clothing in disarray, her chest rising and falling faintly with unconscious breaths. In the corner of the room, huddled together like frightened animals, were Lila and Betsy, their wide eyes reflecting sheer terror.

Jahnny’s stomach churned. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the room itself bore the weight of unspeakable horrors. He didn’t want to understand what had happened here—he couldn’t.

“Mom…?” Jahnny whispered, his voice cracking. He took a hesitant step forward, his bare feet brushing against the cold, grimy floor.

The baby’s cry grew louder, more insistent. Betsy, wrapped in a soiled blanket, shifted in Lila’s arms, her tiny face red with distress. Lila looked up at Jahnny, her lips trembling. She tried to speak, but no words came out, just a soft, choked sob.

Before Jahnny could take another step, heavy boots thudded against the hallway floor outside the apartment. His head snapped toward the noise, his senses sharp with newfound awareness. The door to the apartment burst open, and men in tactical gear poured in, their weapons raised. The room filled with the cold light of flashlights and the metallic clicks of safeties being disengaged.

“Target acquired,” one of them said, his voice muffled by a helmet.

Jahnny froze, his mind reeling. The leader of the group stepped forward, his stance casual yet commanding. He was an older man, with sharp, calculating eyes and a slight smirk that didn’t reach them.

“You must be the kid,” the man said, his tone almost amused. “The one James Wolfegang left behind.”

Jahnny blinked, his body still trembling from the power coursing through him. “James…” he murmured, his voice distant, like he wasn’t fully present. The name sounded like a distant echo in his fractured mind.

The leader raised an eyebrow. “So, you do know him. That makes this easier. Now tell me, what exactly did he do to you?”

Jahnny’s lips moved, almost on their own. His voice was hollow, disassociated. “Doctor James Philip-Charles Wolfegang the Third.”

The leader paused, his smirk fading. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He straightened up and gave a curt nod to his men. “Shoot him.”

Jahnny’s eyes widened, but before he could react, the room erupted in gunfire. The first bullets hit him square in the chest, the impact sending him flying backward. Pain exploded through his body as more rounds struck, the force of each shot slamming him against the far wall. He crumpled to the floor, blood seeping from his wounds.

The world blurred around him. He could hear Lila scream, her voice piercing through the haze. The baby’s cries rose to a fever pitch, but Jahnny couldn’t move. His body felt heavy, his limbs unresponsive. His vision began to fade, the edges of his sight darkening as the chaos swirled around him.

The gunfire ceased, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Jahnny lay on the floor, his body a mangled heap, vision flickering between blurred shapes and complete darkness. He gasped weakly, his chest heaving as he fought to hold onto consciousness. Every nerve in his body screamed in agony, but his mind clung to the faint, fractured pieces of awareness.

Through the haze, he saw the leader holster his weapon. The man turned toward Scar-Face, who was still gasping for air on the floor where Jahnny had left him pinned moments earlier. With a cold efficiency, the leader drew his sidearm, aiming it at Scar-Face without hesitation.

“Loose ends,” the leader muttered, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He pulled the trigger.

The sharp cracks of gunfire echoed in the small apartment. Scar-Face’s body jerked once, then slumped lifelessly to the floor. Blood pooled beneath him, the metallic tang of it mingling with the stifling stench of gunpowder. Jahnny’s stomach twisted and growled, his mind screaming for him to move, to do something—but his body refused to obey.

The leader turned to his men, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim chaos. “Bag the women. We’ll interrogate them at base. If they’ve had contact with Wolfegang, we need to know.”

“No!” Jahnny’s voice was a hoarse rasp, barely audible, but his heart thundered against his ribcage. He wanted to scream, to lunge, to tear them apart, but all he could do was lie there, helpless.

The heavy boots of the mercenaries stomped toward the bedroom. Jahnny’s barely-open eyes caught glimpses of Lila clutching Betsy tightly, her tear-streaked face twisted in terror. Marie remained limp on the bed, unmoving as one of the men lifted her carelessly over his shoulder. The cries of Baby Betsy cut through Jahnny like shards of glass, the sound growing louder as a soldier roughly pulled her from Lila’s arms.

“No!” Jahnny tried again, his voice breaking.

His memory flashed to a time of him and his sister hanging from the fireescape just earlier that year. Lila swung her legs over the edge of the fire escape, her sneakers brushing the rusted metal. “You ever think about getting out of here?” she asked, her voice soft enough to be carried away by the breeze.

Jahnny leaned back against the wall, his arms wrapped around his knees. “All the time,” he admitted. “I’d go somewhere with no smog. Maybe somewhere with mountains. Big ones.”

“Mountains?” Lila asked, raising an eyebrow. “What’re you gonna do on a mountain? Build a castle?”

“Maybe,” Jahnny said, grinning. “Or I’ll have a big farm with animals and stuff. And a dog. A real dog—not like those skinny ones in the alley.”

Lila laughed, tilting her head to look at the stars. “I’d have a bakery,” she said. “Like one of those ones in the movies. With cakes in the window and those little signs that say what they cost.”

“You’d eat all the cakes,” Jahnny teased.

“Only the good ones,” Lila shot back, nudging him with her shoulder. For a moment, the smog and shadows of Blenc felt far away, replaced by mountains, bakeries, and a future that might just be worth wishing for.

Jahnny sat on the edge of the fire escape, his legs dangling over the side. Lila was beside him, her arms wrapped around her knees. The city stretched out below them, its lights flickering like tired stars.

“Do you think Dad’s a bad person?” Jahnny asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lila didn’t answer right away. She stared out at the horizon, her brow furrowed. “I think… I think Dad’s lost,” she said finally.

“Lost?”

“Yeah,” she said, pulling her jacket tighter around her. “Like… he doesn’t know where he’s going. Or how to get back.”

Jahnny thought about that, his hands gripping the rusted railing. “I think he’s just… scared,” he said. “Like he’s trying to fight something, but it’s too big. Like he knows he’s gonna lose, but he’s fighting anyway.”

Lila looked at him, her expression softening. “Maybe,” she said. “But it’s not an excuse to hurt people. Or to hurt us.”

Jahnny didn’t reply. Deep down, he knew she was right. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that if Garth ever stopped fighting, even for a second, Blenc would swallow him whole.

His vision darkened further, the edges of the room dissolving into nothingness. Every sound seemed distant and distorted, as though he were slipping beneath an icy surface. But even as his body gave out, something deep inside him stirred—a primal, raw force that refused to let go.

Betsy’s cry pierced the void, sharp and heart-wrenching. The sound ignited something within Jahnny, a spark that erupted into a roaring inferno. His chest heaved as he let out a guttural, blood-curdling scream that seemed to come from somewhere far deeper than his throat.

The apartment trembled.

The cry rose in pitch and intensity, shaking the walls, rattling the furniture, and shattering what few intact windows remained. The mercenaries froze, exchanging panicked glances as the very floor beneath their feet quaked violently.

“What the hell—?” one of them shouted, his voice barely audible over the deafening rumble.

The building groaned, its ancient framework buckling under the onslaught. Chunks of plaster and drywall rained down, the ceiling cracking apart in jagged lines. The leader turned, his expression hard but tinged with unease. “Fall back! Fall ba—”

His command was drowned out by the roar of collapsing beams. The entire apartment complex seemed to convulse, as if some unseen force had gripped it and was tearing it apart from the inside.

Jahnny’s scream continued, his body wracked with uncontrollable energy. He couldn’t see anymore—his world was nothing but blackness—but he could feel everything. The vibrations, the collapse, the panicked shouts, and the agonized cries of those around him. All of it surged through him, an unstoppable wave of destruction fueled by raw emotion.

And then, silence.

---

The night air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood and plaster. The remains of the apartment complex stood as a jagged, smoldering ruin, a twisted monument to the chaos that had consumed it. Emergency sirens wailed in the distance, mingling with the faint cries of survivors and the barking orders of responders attempting to secure the area.

Near the edge of the destruction, a lone mercenary stood amidst the wreckage, his black tactical gear smeared with soot and grime. He leaned against a crumbling wall, holding a crackling radio to his ear. His face was obscured by a mask, but his voice carried a mixture of frustration and weary professionalism.

“Mission report,” he began, his tone clipped as he spoke into the radio. “The apartment complex is completely destroyed. We lost a lot of good men, but the target—Jahnathan Stokes—survived. We’ve got him restrained and en route to Facility 47 as we speak.”

The voice on the other end was inaudible, but the mercenary gave a brief nod, acknowledging the instructions. He glanced back toward the wreckage, his eyes narrowing at the sight of smoke curling into the night sky.

“Yes, sir,” he continued. “The kid’s a damn enigma. Took multiple rounds and walked away from that collapse like it was nothing. He was unconscious when we retrieved him, but… I don’t think that’ll last long. You were right—he’s a lot more dangerous than we expected.”

The radio buzzed with static as the unseen voice responded. The mercenary adjusted his stance, his tone shifting slightly, betraying a hint of unease.

“And Wolfegang?” he asked, the name tinged with both disdain and grudging respect. “Yeah… we got him too. Barely. Son of a bitch was half-dead when we pulled him from that barn, but he’s stable now. According to the medics, he’ll be able to fully regenerate once they get him to a proper lab. Not sure how I feel about that, but… your call.”

He paused, tilting his head as he listened intently. After a moment, he nodded again, though his jaw clenched beneath the mask.

“Understood, sir. We’ll move forward as planned. The kid’s our priority now. If Wolfegang has any more tricks up his sleeve, we’ll be ready for him. Stokes won’t get far either—not this time.”

The mercenary lowered the radio, allowing the device to dangle from his chest harness. He took a deep breath, the reality of the scene settling heavily on his shoulders. The glow of the fire reflected in his dark visor as he turned toward the distant sound of helicopter blades cutting through the night.

“Damn kid,” he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with something that almost sounded like pity. “You don’t even know what you are, do you?”

With that, he stepped away from the ruins, disappearing into the shadows as the chaos of the night carried on, leaving the smoldering remains of Jahnny Stokes’ childhood behind.