The sky was clear, the wind blew softly, and the birds sang.
Everything was fine.
Once again.
A boy knelt before a burning house—Alma.
"Why…? Again…?" he whispered. Today marked the seventh day.
The front door creaked open, revealing the same figure he had seen every night for the past week.
It knelt to pass through the doorway, stepped onto the porch, then down onto the grass.
That same cold returned. It never changed—a constant.
The figure stood before Alma, its hand reaching out to him.
Always the same. Each night, he'd fall asleep and find himself back here—this burning house, this figure, always reaching toward his face.
And this dream would be no different.
Except...
This time, when the figure reached out, it didn't stop. Alma didn't wake up.
Its hand touched his face. Its fingers were long enough to reach his ears and the top of his head.
His eyes widened.
Instantly, a numbing cold spread from his face across his body.
It shook him. His eyes felt like they'd been dropped into a freezer set on its coldest setting.
His ears—more sensitive than ever. His hearing?
Everything felt off. There wasn't a single word—or even a combination—that could describe the feeling.
He was cold, his body numb, yet there was no pain. After what felt like ages, he adjusted. The numbness faded, but the cold remained.
He blinked—and suddenly, he was back in his room.
No sweat. No panic. Just... weird.
Is this what being high feels like? he wondered.
He stood up, not even bothering to look around. Something had changed.
Alma walked into the bathroom and tugged on the chain to turn on the light. The brightness bothered him more than usual—but it wasn't unbearable.
He walked to the sink, eyes fixed on the clothes in his hands: a white T-shirt, black cargo pants from his uncle, a blue fleece jacket, and red-and-black sneakers. The laces were red and black, threaded through black eyelets. The toe box was perforated, and the soles were rubbery and white.
He laid the clothes on the counter and looked up at the mirror—and almost screamed.
His sclera—the whites of his eyes—were gone. In their place was a black, oily, liquid texture. Even his irises looked darker.
He stared at his reflection for what felt like hours, unable to look away.
Panicking, he turned the faucet on and splashed water on his face, desperately trying to wash away the blackness.
Nothing.
His eyes didn't change. The water ran clear. No black liquid. Nothing.
The clock above the bathroom door ticked, snapping him back to reality. Time was wasting.
He quickly got into the tub, bathed, dried off, and dressed. But despite the routine, he felt nervous.
The end-of-grade test.
That was today.
Back in his room, he marked off the previous day on the calendar—June 10th, 1954.
He rummaged through his nightstand and found his sunglasses. He slid them on.
No way his parents could see his eyes like this.
Just another challenge to push through, Alma thought.
He stepped out of his room and headed downstairs.
The kitchen light was on—his father, Ramiro, was there.
Alma walked in and greeted him. Ramiro's back was turned.
"Morning, Papá."
Ramiro turned, eyebrow arched. "Morning? You're wearing sunglasses? Inside?"
Then his tone shifted—concerned. "Alma... The stress from the test—it isn't messing with you, is it?"
He walked over, hand resting firmly on Alma's shoulder.
Alma gave a soft chuckle and took his father's hand gently.
"No, it's nothing like that," he said. "My eyes are just sensitive today. I think the light's bothering them more than usual."
Ramiro studied him for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Alright... as long as you're okay."
He turned to grab his mug—but it was too close to the edge.
It tipped.
Alma moved. Fast.
In one fluid motion, he crossed the kitchen and caught it—before it hit the floor, before a single drop spilled, before it shattered.
He stared down at it. Ramiro stared at him.
"Uh..." Alma blinked. "That might be my fastest catch ever."
He handed the mug back, then muttered under his breath, "If only I moved that quick last week…"
Ramiro took it, silent for a second. Then:
"That was... impressive," he said, almost too quietly. "Really impressive."
Alma grabbed a banana from the counter, peeled it, and took a bite. "I gotta head to school. Love you, Papá. Tell Mamá I love her too."
He walked out the door and down the driveway.
He tossed the banana peel into the woods just as the bus pulled up.
Climbing aboard, he walked down the aisle and took his usual seat beside his best friend—Jack.
Jack didn't even flinch at the sunglasses.
"So?" he said, voice casual but curious. "Another nightmare?"
Alma nodded. "Yeah. But... it wasn't the same."
Jack turned slightly, more alert now. "What do you mean?"
"The figure. The one in the top hat... it touched me this time," Alma said.
Jack's eyes widened. "It touched you?"
Alma nodded again. "Its hand was cold. Like, inside your bones cold. My whole body went numb. My eyes felt like they were freezing from the inside. My ears were picking up everything... like the world got way too loud."
Jack stared, unsure what to say.
Alma's voice dropped to a murmur. "I didn't wake up this time, Jack. I felt everything. And I'm still feeling it."
It hit him—suddenly, and at the worst possible moment. Confusion settled into Alma's chest like a cold breath.
Jack noticed Alma's hand clenched at his side and gently rested his own on Alma's shoulder.
"I don't know what's going on with you… but you seriously need to talk to someone. A priest, maybe?" Jack said, his tone more sincere than joking.
"I'll look into it," Alma replied with a steady voice. "Right now, I've got a test to worry about."
Jack gave a small nod and pulled his hand back, flipping open his notebook to sketch.
The bus came to a stop in front of the school, and the students filed out in noisy waves. Jack and Alma went through their usual routine, hopping from class to class.
But today was different. Today, Alma passed Geography with ease—too much ease. His awareness felt razor-sharp. He saw things others missed: side notes the teacher didn't read aloud, diagrams that held more meaning than they should've.
By the time they entered the classroom for the end-of-grade testing, Alma's nerves were in full swing. All day, he'd felt... different.
Faster. Stronger. Clearer. He moved like something had rewired his reflexes and sharpened his instincts. He even thought faster—though he couldn't be sure if that part was real or just imagination.
This test would decide his future—whether he advanced a grade, maybe even whether college would be in reach.
Alma sat a few seats behind Jack, wanting space. Distance from everyone—especially Jack. And their teacher.
Mr. Phillips Jonsey entered the room. "Alright students. You can call me Mister Phill," he said, passing out the tests, one by one.
Thirty students in total. A grueling test: 150 questions—45 Science, 52 Reading, 53 Math. Each student had 90 minutes. That gave them just 36 seconds per question.
Alma's pencil trembled in his hand as he started.
And then something strange happened.
The questions didn't feel hard. In fact... the answers seemed to rise out of the paper. The numbers and letters twisted together, forming the solution before he even consciously worked it out.
He blinked, double-checked. Solved the problem manually. Same answer.
It wasn't just faster thinking—it was like his eyes decoded the test before his mind got involved.
Hard to explain. Harder to believe.
Before he knew it, 45 minutes had passed. And Alma was done. Completely done.
He spent the rest of the test flipping his pencil like a butterfly knife, watching the second hand crawl around the wall clock.
When the 90 minutes finally expired, Mr. Phill collected the tests.
"You'll all be notified of your scores in the coming days," he said. Then, pausing at Alma's desk: "Alma?"
Alma perked up.
"You pass."
His eyes widened. Whispers spread through the room.
"You're kidding, right?" Alma said. "How do you know? I could've missed one."
Phillip smiled and sat down at his desk. On Alma's test, he scribbled two letters: A+.
"You're Alma Alastor. That's how I know."
He handed Alma the sheet. "You earned it. You're the smartest kid in this school—probably smarter than me. Take pride in that."
Alma looked down at the paper, a giddy warmth building inside him. He barely kept from bouncing around the room.
"Thank you, Mr. Phill... really. Thank you." He gave the teacher a quick hug, surprising them both.
"Go show your parents," Phill said with a chuckle.
Outside the classroom, Jack was already grinning.
"Congrats, Alma! One hundred percent! Doesn't get better than that."
They hit their lockers, gathering up books and tossing them into their bags.
"Yeah, I know," Alma said, beaming. "I still can't believe it."
Once outside, their parents were already waiting.
Alma rushed to his mom and dad—Sonia and Ramiro. Jack darted toward his own—Amastan and Hartley.
Hartley hugged Jack first. "So? How'd it go?"
Jack puffed his chest. "Pretty darn great. The teacher gave me and Alma an A-plus on the spot."
"That's wonderful, honey," Hartley said, ruffling Jack's hair. "We're taking you to the mall. Pick anything you want."
"Within our budget," Amastan added, laughing.
"There's my sweet boy," Sonia purred, hugging Alma tightly.
He smiled and hugged her back, arms wrapping easily around her shoulders.
Ramiro examined the test score. "Same as last year, huh?"
"Right on the spot," Alma said, nodding.
"This calls for celebration," Sonia said, eyes twinkling. "Jack's parents are headed to the mall—wanna come?"
Alma lit up. "Yeeeeessssss!!!" he squealed.
"Alma!" Jack called from his van. "Race ya!"
The vehicle pulled off (well within the speed limit).
"Hey! No fair!" Alma scrambled into their yellow car, slamming the door. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon—Jack's beating us!"
Ramiro and Sonia laughed.
It was nice—really nice—to see Alma act his age again.
They missed this version of him. The part that hadn't been swallowed up by brilliance.
Alma and his parents pulled into the mall parking lot, right behind Jack and his family.
This was only Alma's third time visiting a mall in his life. Once when he was four, and again at ten. Now, fourteen, he couldn't contain his excitement.
Both families stepped out of their cars, walking side by side.
Ramiro and Amastan struck up a conversation about cars and tools, while Sonia and Hartley chatted about essentials and clothes.
Alma and Jack walked ahead, lost in their own world of plans and ideas.
"I'm getting the latest comics," Jack said, grinning. "You know, the ones with those detectives."
"I'm looking for a good fountain pen," Alma said, "and maybe a pocket watch."
The group stepped through the mall's glass doors.
"Alright," Ramiro said. "An hour or two, we'll meet back here at the entrance. Whatever you kids buy, we'll cover it."
Alma and Jack nodded eagerly as Ramiro and Amastan handed them money.
"We will!" Alma called back, sprinting off with Jack. Their parents exchanged smiles.
"Two hours!" Ramiro shouted after them.
The adults went off in different directions. Alma and Jack headed to their first stop: the comic store.
"You really should read some of these," Jack said, flipping through the shelves. "You're missing out on the greatest writing of our generation."
Alma smirked. "You sound biased. I think you're just fanboying."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Please. I just have taste. You wouldn't know greatness if it punched you in the face."
As they joked, Alma's gaze landed on a comic cover—Marvelous Man, a blonde hero with two bright red "MM" on his chest.
"Marvelous Man?" Alma muttered, picking it up. "Neat."
They paid with the money their parents had given them.
"Marvelous Man? Total knockoff of Superb Man," Jack said, eyeing Alma's comic.
"Superb Man?" Alma asked.
Jack blinked. "Wait—Super. Just Super. My bad."
Alma rolled his eyes and walked into the jewelry store. Behind the glass, he spotted it—a slim, gold pocket watch. He bought it without hesitation.
Later, at a stationery store, Alma found a deep brown fountain pen. After that, he and Jack split up.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, Alma returned to the entrance, fifteen minutes early.
He smiled as he saw his parents approaching.
But something was wrong.
Their expressions were tight, angry. Silent.
"Mom? Dad?" Alma started.
Smack—his mother's hand struck his face.
His vision blurred from the sting. "Mother—?"
"Not another word!" Sonia barked. "Because of you, we couldn't buy anything!"
Alma was stunned. They had enough money—he was sure of it. Why would they say that?
"I don't understand," Alma said quietly.
Then came the words that crushed him:
"You're a disappointment," Sonia spat. "I regret ever giving birth to you."
The world slowed. Tears welled up behind Alma's glasses, spilling down his cheeks.
Without another glance, his parents turned and walked away.
Alma collapsed to his knees. His sobs were silent at first, but quickly grew louder.
Realization struck him like a second blow. They were gone.
He bolted outside. Their car was already pulling away.
"Hey!! Wait!!" he cried, his voice cracking. "Please... don't leave me...!"
But they didn't stop. They didn't even look back.
Alma stumbled back inside, running to the nearest bathroom. He slipped at the entrance and didn't try to get up.
He cried there, alone.
Eventually, he rose, staggering to the mirror. But something was wrong.
He had no reflection.
He took a step closer, heart racing.
Then—there he was.
The HatMan.
Standing in the mirror where Alma should have been. Two heads taller than him. The same figure from his dreams. The one who touched his face.
"You again... WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?" Alma shouted, voice trembling with rage and pain.
He blinked. His reflection returned.
Without thinking, Alma punched the glass. It shattered. His hand didn't bleed.
He rushed out, bumping into a man, barely noticing.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack and his parents arrived at the entrance.
Alma ran to them and threw his arms around Jack, sobbing silently.
"Alma?" Jack said, holding him close. "What happened?"
"My parents... left me," Alma whispered.
"What?" Jack said, shocked.
"They wouldn't do that," Amastan said, frowning.
Alma looked up. "She said I was a disappointment. That she wished she never gave birth to me…"
Their faces turned to horror. Even Sonia—strict as she could be—would never say that.
Hartley was the first to speak. "That's horrible... they just left you here? A fourteen-year-old?"
Alma nodded.
"Don't worry," Amastan said firmly. "We'll take you home. We'll figure this out."
They left the mall together. Alma sat in the back of their van, quiet and shaken.
But thirty minutes later, they didn't arrive at Alma's house.
They arrived at Jack's.
Amastan was the first to step out, followed by his wife. Hartley climbed down, and Jack helped Alma out of the van.
Alma moved like a corpse—a husk of the person he'd once been. His mother's words. His parents' actions. They had shattered him.
Amastan unlocked the front door. Jack guided Alma inside, easing him down onto the couch.
Jack sat beside him. Across from them, Amastan and Hartley took the chairs flanking the coffee table, a tense silence settling between them.
"Do you know what could have possibly brought that on? Any abnormalities in their speech, their mental health?" Amastan asked. His voice was steady. Too steady.
Hartley shot him a glare, full of disbelief.
"I cannot believe you just said that. Right in front of the poor boy, no less."
"What? That's the only way I could make sense of it—drugs. It's the only reason I can imagine for them saying those things. For abandoning him."
"My parents would never do them. My mother's speech was clear. Almost… constructed—like she practiced the words in front of a mirror." Alma's voice was quiet, but firm.
"Whatever it is, their behavior isn't normal. I've known Sonia since she came to America in '24," Hartley said, her voice low, reflective. "Ramiro too. They always wanted a child. Even now, at fifty-four. Especially Sonia. It just doesn't make sense."
"So just what is it?" she muttered.
Amastan stood, walking toward the door.
"I'm going over there. I want to see what happened."
Hartley got up and followed.
"Me too. Jack? Alma? You coming?"
"You can go ahead, Jack. I need time to…" Alma looked down. "Think."
Jack nodded. "We'll be back." His last words before he left with his parents.
The silence returned, but Alma couldn't stop shaking. A sick feeling churned in his stomach. Something was wrong. He should've gone with them.
Hours passed. The night grew late. Still, they didn't come back.
Worry overtook him. Alma stood, grabbed his coat, and stepped out into the night. He locked the door behind him and walked the block.
He reached the end of the dirt driveway, heart racing. Jack's parents' van sat parked by the house.
The air was still. No fireflies. No sounds. Heavy clouds loomed above, threatening rain.
Alma stepped forward, each footfall heavier than the last. He had to know why. Why his parents acted that way. Why Jack's family hadn't returned.
The porch creaked beneath his feet. A foul stench hit him like a wall.
He recoiled, covering his nose. "What is that?"
He tried the door. Locked. With trembling fingers, he pulled the key from his pocket. The moment he opened the door, the stench intensified.
Darkness swallowed the house. No lights. No voices. No life.
Alma stepped inside. The dread crawled up his spine, coiling in his gut. It made him nauseous—and the smell didn't help.
Rain began to pour. Outside, puddles formed in the driveway.
Lightning cracked the sky.
In its flash, Alma saw them.
His parents. Jack. Jack's parents.
Bodies. All of them. Laid out together.
He froze. Couldn't move. Couldn't think. The terror plastered across his face mirrored the pale horror that washed over him. His brain refused to process it.
"I was wondering when you'd show up." A man's voice came from the corner near the stairs. Calm. Cold. "Thought you'd come with the black boy's parents."
Alma didn't turn. He heard the voice. But his eyes were locked on the place the bodies lay, lost in the shadows.
A soft click. The lamp turned on, flooding the room with light.
Now he could see them. All of them. The bodies. And the man.
He wore a white hood and a black mask with wide eye holes. But Alma wasn't sure he could see through them. A white trench coat with yellow lining hung to his knees, over boots—white with black soles.
He rose to his full height. Six-foot-two. Then stepped toward Alma.
"They were easy to kill. Just one slash across the neck could've done it. But I tortured them while you waited to come," the man said. He sounded pleased.
"It's your fault, after all. They could've died painlessly if you'd come earlier. You sick bastard." He laughed—cruel, taunting—as Alma's horror doubled.
In a blink, the man was in front of him. A dagger gleamed in his hand.
He stabbed Alma in the left eye.
Alma screamed. The force of the stab sent him flying backward. The man yanked the dagger free and followed up with a brutal punch to the chin.
The blow launched Alma through the upstairs floor—then out through the attic, hurling him into the air above the house.
Lightning ripped the sky behind him.
The man appeared midair, fist drawn back.
He punched Alma mid-flight, slamming him into the ground with crushing force. The dirt exploded beneath the impact, forming a crater.
Alma's body tumbled from it, crashing into Jack's van. The metal groaned as it dented under his weight.
The man stepped out of the house, boots pressing against the worn wood of the porch. The screen door creaked shut behind him. A woman joined him, her movements quiet and precise, her clothing nearly identical to his—save for the subtle differences in shape, a softer silhouette.
Before them, seven figures stood at the edge of the porch steps. They, too, wore the same uniforms. Their only distinguishing features were the curves and edges of their bodies—masculine, feminine—like a mirror split into nine pieces.
"He's not dead, Chance," the woman said. Her voice was low, clipped. Disappointment hidden beneath a veil of calm.
Chance exhaled slowly, staring past the others at the boy on the ground.
"I know, right? I thought it would've at least knocked him out." He paused, scoffing. "Didn't even do that. He's strong, Jasmine."
Jasmine didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed ahead.
"Doesn't matter. He still has to die."
One of the masculine figures stepped forward, descending the porch with a hand wrapped around the hilt of a newly polished sword.
"Yeah," Chance murmured, folding his arms. "There's no doubt about that anymore."
Alma was on all fours in the dirt. His sunglasses lay broken beside him, knocked off by the force of the blow. His black eyes were exposed now, twin voids.
He stared at the ground. Confused. Numb.
Why? Why would they do this to him? Why his parents? Why Jack? Why Amastan and Hartley?
Why did they all have to suffer just because someone wanted him dead?
His fingers curled into the soil, the dirt catching beneath his nails.
His blood simmered. His eyes stung.
Then it started—black liquid, thick as tar, began to trail down his cheeks. From both eyes it fell.
But only a single drop slipped from the right and struck the grass.
The blade of grass sizzled, withered, and died.
His rage deepened.
Alma's heart pounded in his chest. His vision blurred, but not from pain—from fury.
The figure approached him, sword raised high. A clean strike aimed for Alma's neck.
Then—
From Alma's stabbed eye—the left—a torrent of blackness surged out, a monstrous mass of liquid pain.
It struck the attacker before the blade could fall, engulfing him completely. The man screamed, his voice sharp and short-lived. The sword dissolved in seconds, rusted and then gone.
The figure's flesh melted away. Even the bones, once revealed, didn't last long.
There was nothing left.
The six remaining figures froze. Even Chance and Jasmine, so confident before, stepped back.
Alma remained on his knees. Despite all the scripture he'd once clung to—all the verses warning that vengeance wasn't his to take—
He let it go.
And vengeance came.
The black mass writhed, then took shape—eight feet tall, a beast born of wrath.
Its face was hidden beneath a blindfold crafted from the same tar-like liquid. Two muscular arms, two legs. No feet—only a long, trailing tail that stretched back into Alma's eye like a tether to the soul.
The creature landed beside him with a heavy thud. Then it raised its arms and roared.
The sound shook the earth.
Alma stood. Slow. Steady. The beast lingered at his side like a guardian.
He turned his head slightly. His one good eye widened as it locked onto the remaining enemies.
He'd found them.
The beast lunged first, darting forward. It grabbed one of the women with ease, crushing her body like paper.
The five others jumped back, scrambling as the beast hunted them down, tethered to Alma by that ethereal tail.
Alma was left alone with Jasmine and Chance.
They stepped down from the porch, approaching him with caution. Only a few feet between them now.
Then—burst. They vanished, moving in a flash, reappearing far from the house.
But Alma was behind them.
"What?!" Chance staggered, shocked. Not just by Alma's speed—but by his ability to track theirs.
Alma swung, his fist narrowly missing Chance's ribs.
"Holy shit!" Chance yelped, leaping back.
Alma didn't let up. He moved like someone who'd fought for years. Every strike was weighty, calculated. His form flawless.
Chance grinned. "He's a natural-born killer..."
Jasmine saw it—Alma was focused only on Chance. So she struck from behind.
Or tried to.
Alma spun, catching her wrist. With a sharp twist—crack. Bone snapped.
Jasmine gasped, then screamed.
"The whole time…" Chance muttered, stunned. "His real target was Jasmine…"
Alma drove his fist into her face. The sheer force parted the falling rain around them. Jasmine flew backward, sliding through the mud.
Blood poured from her nose. Her vision doubled, then blurred.
Chance drew a hidden blade and charged, but the beast turned its gaze toward him.
It had finished the others. Now it came for him.
Chance watched in horror as his weapon rusted mid-run.
He stumbled back, eyes wide.
He was going to die. For the first time in fifteen years… he was actually going to die.
Alma closed in on Jasmine, preparing the finishing blow—
Then light.
A beam as wide as a truck slammed down from the sky.
It struck Alma and the beast, erupting in a brilliant explosion.
Dirt and smoke burst upward. The ground shook.
Chance shielded his eyes. "Finally!" he shouted, relieved. "Took you long enough!"
Above them, the clouds had been parted. A ship floated in the sky, massive and gray, circular in design. Dozens of glowing blue lights lined the perimeter, humming softly.
From the ship, a figure descended.
Chance hoisted Jasmine onto his shoulder and made his way toward the landing zone.
The figure hit the ground in a quiet but heavy impact.
"Marlena!" Chance called out, clearly irritated. "What the hell took you so long? We were getting our asses handed to us!"
Marlena straightened. Her presence was sharp, composed.
She glanced at Jasmine's broken state, sighed, and shook her head.
"I told the General you two weren't cut out for this. But he's too damn hopeful." Her voice was dry, judgmental.
Chance didn't argue. He couldn't. Not like this.
Suddenly—
Movement.
Alma rose from the crater.
Chance's jaw dropped. "No way… how is he still—"
Marlena narrowed her eyes.
More figures landed behind her.
"Commander," one of them called out. "Reporting for duty."
Marlena nodded. "You know the mission."
She and her second-in-command approached Alma.
When they were close—five yards, maybe—she spoke.
"Alma Daedulus Alastor. You've been declared a national threat by the Judgement Initiative for Biblical Revelation and Intercession of the Lord."
She paused. "Otherwise known as J.I.B.R.I.L."
Alma didn't respond at first. He barely moved.
Then, hoarse and ragged, he whispered, "As if I care…"
Marlena leaned forward. "Say that again?"
But Alma didn't repeat himself.
Instead, he lunged.
The Vice Commander moved in a blink, punching Alma mid-charge. The impact sent him flying back into the trees.
His body collided with a trunk, impaling his side on a sharp branch. He didn't scream. Just exhaled. A quiet, defeated breath.
"Good work, Saylor," Marlena said. "Send a team to retrieve the body for cremation."
But beyond the treeline—
Alma's eyes flickered. Darkness crept in. His heart slowed.
"I'm sorry… Mom, Dad… Jack… I couldn't do it…" he whispered.
"This is what I deserve."
His eyes shut.
Silence.
Then—
His eyes burst open.
Three spinning red sixes burned in the center of his pupils.
He screamed.
Marlena and Saylor turned.
Alma rose. Unnatural. Unstoppable.
His hand gripped the tree for support. His breath rattled in his chest.
Saylor's voice broke the tension. "What… what am I looking at?"
Marlena's face paled. "The organization said he was a national threat. That he had to be killed—no matter what."
Saylor glanced at her.
"They also said something else. Something I didn't believe." Marlena's voice dropped. "Now I do."
She looked up.
"This boy… is possessed by the Devil."
Alma's right arm shot up and seized the branch still lodged in his chest. With a violent yank, he tore it free—flesh and bark peeling apart like wet paper.
Beside him, the beast that had been obliterated by the earlier beam reformed, darker and more imposing than before. Its body towered now, formed of a deeper, hungrier black.
Alma's eyes locked onto Marlena.
She exhaled and squared herself.
"Prepare for the worst," she told Saylor, who silently readied a metal bo staff, hands trembling.
The beast vanished.
A fraction of a second later, Saylor was airborne, slammed by a blur neither she nor Marlena could react to.
Marlena's breath caught. She spun—Saylor was already engaged, fending off the creature in a brutal dance. But fighting wasn't the right word. She was surviving.
Then she turned back—Alma hadn't moved.
Or so she thought.
A gust of wind streaked past her. Marlena's heart dropped. Alma was behind her now, standing still, back turned, eyes forward.
She twisted, swinging a backhand at him—nothing.
Pain exploded in her ribs. The world spun. Her body flung backward like a rag doll.
Alma had hit her.
She clawed at the dirt, slowing herself, and looked up—he was gone.
Then came a left hook. Her vision blurred. A punch to the stomach crushed the air from her lungs and hurled her into a tree, snapping it in half.
She rolled just in time to avoid it falling on her.
Then Alma's foot drove into the back of her head. She cratered into the earth.
The shattered tree didn't go to waste. Alma lifted it with one hand and brought it down on her—again and again. Each strike thudded like a drumbeat from hell.
The tree finally snapped, but he didn't stop. He grabbed the other half.
More.
Splinters embedded in her skin. Each slam forced them deeper. Bones cracked. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
He struck beside her with the broken log, splintering it to pieces—launching her upward.
And then, with both hands on the last piece of wood, he swung.
She sailed through the air. When she hit the ground, the impact echoed. Blood soaked her clothes. Her glasses shattered. Her limbs were broken, her body a mess of tears and agony.
Alma stood over her like a god who had nothing left to forgive.
Marlena's eyes shifted to the side—Saylor was gone. Only her lower half remained.
Then she saw the others. Chance. Jasmine. Dead.
There was no one left.
Shaking, broken, Marlena begged.
"Please… have mercy…"
The woman of poise, the calm tactician, was gone. This was someone else—someone desperate.
Alma's expression didn't change.
"I-I'll give you anything," she whimpered. "Wealth, power—"
His foot came down hard on her throat, cutting off the offer.
"Did you have mercy on my parents?" Alma asked. His voice was lifeless. "Did you let them live?"
Her eyes widened. She knew.
A second beam of light tore through the clouds. Alma turned, seeing it descend toward her. He moved just in time.
Marlena was caught in the beam. But this one wasn't meant to kill—it lifted her, slowly.
Alma moved.
He grabbed a V-8 engine, chain still wrapped around it, and hurled it with unnatural strength.
It curved through the air like it had a will.
It hit her mid-air, hard.
She dropped like a stone, hundreds of feet, and died on impact.
The ship disappeared, not sparing a second glance.
The sky above Alma's home darkened. Clouds gathered. Rain returned.
He walked.
He stepped onto the porch. Through the ruined door, inside.
There was a hole in the ceiling. The lamp was still on.
He moved to his parents' bodies, cradled them, and brought them outside. Their blood smeared on his hands. He didn't wipe it away.
From his father's shed—his shed, now—he grabbed a shovel.
He dug two graves and laid them side by side. No tears. No words.
Then Jack and his parents. He buried Jack between Amastan and Hartley. The others beside him.
He cleaned the blood off the wooden floors, tossed the soaked carpet into the rain.
From the trees around the house, Alma stripped bark with his father's rusted machete, and carved names with a kitchen knife.
Five makeshift tombstones stood in the soft earth:
Amastan Katlego Starr.
Hartley Abioye Starr.
Jack Kayode Starr.
Ramiro Torres Hugo Alastor.
Sonia Hutchins Sierra Alastor.
When it was done, Alma returned inside.
He locked the door.
Laid down on the couch.
And slept.