Alma was already halfway out the door, his morning routine having long since concluded. Wake up, take a shower, fix breakfast, get dressed, and head to work — the pattern had settled into his life like clockwork. It had been a week since he started his new job at the mechanic shop, and yet, even now, he remained uncertain about what he truly wanted for his future.
For the time being, however, Alma was content with the simplicity of his current life. His plans were modest but meaningful: raise Jasmine, support her in every way he could, watch her grow, and one day, when his time came, pass away peacefully — hopefully married to a beautiful woman and father to two children. Ideally, he would leave this world at a happy old age. But beneath this contentment was a lingering unrest, an unshakable feeling that his life carried a larger purpose, one uniquely meant for him. It was something he alone was destined to fulfill — something no one else could achieve.
That sense of inevitability had haunted him ever since the day he entered the fabricated black hole. And yet, along with it came another feeling, one he couldn't quite name or understand, but which had taken root within him during that exact moment. Not a single day since then had dulled either of those sensations, nor had they eased in the slightest.
They gnawed at him constantly, and though they unsettled him, Alma refused to let them interfere with the life he was building — especially when it came to Jasmine's future.
Since the day Jasmine met Roseanne, the two had become inseparable, their friendship forming almost instantly. Roseanne always brought a small snack for Jasmine whenever she came over, and Jasmine, delighted, devoured it without hesitation. In a short amount of time, she had come to view Roseanne as a mother figure, despite only having met her recently. Later, after Alma's shifts, Roseanne would linger behind to speak with him, often while Jasmine busied herself helping Jody close up the shop.
One evening, Roseanne confided in Alma about her past, and he listened in silence, his chest heavy as her words unfolded. She told him about losing her husband a year before the death of her only child — a three-year-old boy — in a severe car accident. Her body had been shattered, leaving her without feeling in both legs and her face broken, though she eventually recovered after a year. But no amount of time could mend the grief of losing both her husband and child. The accident had been over thirty years ago, yet the pain never left her. She admitted to feeling lost, meaningless, and hopeless — her battles were not financial but mental, fought daily against her own demons, which constantly tempted her toward despair. Toward ending her own life.
When she finished, Alma stepped forward and embraced her tightly, his expression somber as he murmured an apology for her suffering — a response that had become second nature to him. Roseanne gently shook her head and dismissed his words. It wasn't his fault. In truth, it wasn't anyone's fault. And yet, she confessed she wished she could return to the days when she had something — someone — to love, and when that love had been returned in full.
In Jasmine, Roseanne found exactly that. The warmth she had lost in her child, she now rediscovered within Alma's daughter. Though she never saw Alma in the same light as she once viewed her husband, she recognized in him a good and caring man, someone worthy of trust.
Over the course of that week, the bond between Jasmine and Roseanne deepened rapidly. Jasmine had begun cautiously, hesitant and reserved, but she quickly opened up under Roseanne's kindness, eventually growing comfortable and relaxed in her presence. To anyone who saw them together, they looked like mother and daughter — an inseparable pair.
Jasmine's trust began to extend beyond Roseanne as well. She became more willing to open up to others, likely influenced by Roseanne's nurturing presence. Alma only hoped that this newfound trust would always be deserved. Yet, it wasn't just strangers Jasmine warmed up to — she grew closer to Alma as well. He felt their bond strengthening with each passing day, even though Jasmine still kept many of her personal motives hidden from him. That secrecy, strangely enough, brought Alma a sense of relief. He carried his own burden of guilt for not revealing to Jasmine the truth about who — and what — he truly was, and in a way, her secrets granted him permission to keep his own.
That morning, as Alma reached for the spare key to the apartment, Jasmine stirred awake. It was October 25th, 2032 — just six days before her tenth birthday. The occasion was monumental for both of them: for Alma, because he would finally have the chance to be present for his adopted daughter's birthday, and for Jasmine, because, for the first time in her life, she would experience a day filled with true happiness and unconditional love.
Jasmine shuffled over to Alma and wordlessly beckoned him to bend down with a small gesture of her finger. He leaned forward, and she kissed him on the cheek. Alma smiled softly, returning the gesture with a kiss to her forehead before straightening once more.
"Alright, I'm heading out. Roseanne should be here in about an hour," he said, then continued, his tone shifting into stern instruction. "You know the rules: don't answer the door for strangers, keep the door locked until Roseanne or I get back, and be vigilant. They strike most when you're unaware."
Jasmine nodded, watching quietly as Alma stepped toward the door.
"Today, I've got another seven-hour shift, so I'll be back around three or so," Alma added, his expression brightening into an excited grin. "And guess what?"
"What?" Jasmine asked, tilting her head curiously.
"I get paid todayyyyy!" Alma squealed, hopping once in exaggerated joy.
"Huh? I thought you said you didn't have a bank account. Or even an ID?" Jasmine replied, her voice carrying suspicion.
"Eh, I got a kid to help me out with that. Made myself a fake ID and set up a bank account using it," Alma admitted sheepishly, waving the matter off. "Well… it's not really fake, since it has my full name, age, and date of birth. So technically, I guess I just… made myself a real ID."
Jasmine clicked her tongue and crossed her arms. "Never thought you'd stoop so low, Daddy."
"What? I had to! I lost my real one ages ago," Alma protested.
Jasmine narrowed her eyes at him. "Uh huh. Sure you did. You still haven't told me that story."
"Uh — gotta go! Goodbye! Love you!" Alma blurted hastily as he opened the door.
"Love you," Jasmine replied in a flat, monotone voice, watching him leave.
---
By three in the afternoon, Alma had wrapped up his shift and was walking along the sidewalk, a slight bounce in his step as he carefully counted nearly a thousand dollars in his hand. His first stop was a nearby retail store, intent on restocking groceries and, more importantly, finding the perfect birthday gift for Jasmine — or at the very least, a heartfelt card.
He wandered the aisles for several minutes, scanning shelf after shelf as one thought circled his mind: What would Jasmine like? Eventually, he found it — a small wooden unicorn she could ride like a rocking horse, complete with sturdy handles so she wouldn't fall.
Afterward, he picked up the groceries they needed, including ingredients for a homemade cake, and then stopped to choose a birthday card. Three options caught his eye, and he agonized over them briefly before finally settling on one. At the register, he placed the card and the unicorn on the conveyor belt, waiting as the cashier scanned each item.
"Alright, sir, that'll be four hundred and seventy-eight dollars," she said plainly.
---
Balancing the wooden unicorn in one arm, a bag of groceries in his other, and Jasmine's card tucked safely into his jacket, Alma made his way back to the apartment. After unlocking the door, he set the unicorn carefully in the middle of the living room, stored the groceries, and went straight to the small desk tucked into the corner. Sitting down, he grabbed a pen from a black cup and opened the card, pouring his thoughts onto the page in steady strokes.
A tear slipped down his cheek as he finished writing. He signed his name at the bottom, placed the card into its pink envelope, and hid it in the back of a drawer. The unicorn and cake ingredients followed into a rarely used storage closet, safely out of sight.
Checking the time, Alma noted it was already four o'clock. Jasmine's deadline was seven, giving him about three hours of free time. After making sure all the refrigerated items were properly stored, he locked up the apartment and stepped back outside.
The streets of D.C. welcomed him with a cool October breeze that tugged softly at his dark black hair. Eventually, Alma stopped at a small coffee shop, joining the line behind several others. He didn't mind the wait, absentmindedly tapping his thighs while scanning the menu above the counter.
Fifteen minutes later, his turn arrived.
The barista — a young blonde woman with bright blue eyes — had just finished wiping down a table behind her. As she turned and spotted Alma, her gaze froze briefly, startled by his height and broad, husky build. He stood studying the menu, one hand supporting his chin while his index finger rested thoughtfully beneath his bottom lip.
The barista blushed deeply, biting her lip nervously. "W-what c-can I get you, s-sir?" she stammered, her voice timid.
"Can I get, uhh…" Alma began, pausing as his eyes flicked across the options. "A Pumpkin Pie Spice Blast?"
"You can pump into my pie and blast your spice anytime," she muttered under her breath.
"Huh?" Alma blinked in confusion.
"Sorry! I like to… uh… mumble customer orders to myself," she replied quickly, forcing a polite smile. Alma nodded slowly, accepting the explanation without question.
A few minutes later, his drink was ready, and he settled by a window, gazing out at the sun as he inspected the beverage curiously.
Cautiously, he took a sip — and his eyes widened instantly as his taste buds erupted in delight. A grin spread across his face as he closed his eyes, humming softly to himself.
"Oh, this is sooo goooood!" he exclaimed quietly, immediately taking a larger sip.
Nearby, another barista — a young Black woman with warm hazelnut eyes and natural curls — glanced in his direction. "Check out that hunk over there," she murmured.
The blonde who'd served him sighed dreamily. "Tell me about it. And those arms… he could lift me with one hand and slam me down on his—"
"Wow, this is good," Alma said to himself, entirely oblivious to their whispers. "Can't believe I've never tried this before. My time period sucked for luxuries like this… or maybe I just didn't know they existed."
Then, smiling brightly, he added with a quiet squeal, "Doesn't matter. I get to experience it now!"
Before long, the barista with hazelnut eyes approached his table. "Hey, handsome," she greeted sweetly.
Alma turned to her, offering a polite nod. "Thank you. You've got really beautiful eyes," he said sincerely before returning his gaze to the window.
She giggled softly, covering her smile with her hand. "Do you want to see what eyes our children would have?"
Alma froze, turning back with a sheepish grin. "Uh… I think they'd probably have either yours or mine. I'm… not sure."
"Well," she leaned forward, her cleavage suddenly hovering in his line of sight, "there's only one way to find out."
"Uh…" Alma's gaze lingered for a second before he forced himself to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry, but I'm busy. Actually, I need to leave right now, so… if you'll excuse me…"
He tried to stand, but the barista leaned into him, causing them both to topple backward. She landed against his chest, her body pressed close, but Alma quickly slid out from under her and scrambled to his feet. Without hesitation, he bolted toward the door and out into the street.
After sprinting a few paces, he slowed and exhaled sharply, nearly spilling his coffee more than once. "Welp… note to self: never go back THERE again, yeesh," he muttered, shaking his head as he continued down the sidewalk.
Alma walked for several more minutes, his hands buried in his pockets as he took in the scenery around him. The world felt still, hushed, almost suspended in time, and for once, he allowed himself to savor it. He was at peace — an extraordinarily rare feeling for him. Ever since he had come to this Earth, had there ever truly been a moment where he could take a break? Beyond sleep, which hardly counted, Alma had never had a moment entirely to himself — not here, and not back on his own Earth either. And yet, despite the constant demands and the endless battles, he had never felt tired. Not physically. Not even mentally.
Why should relaxation matter when his very being was already calm? For once, there was no urgency gnawing at him, no dread humming beneath the surface. The peace he felt within mirrored the world around him. Birds chirped softly in the distance, their calls weaving with the whispering rustle of leaves as a gentle wind passed, carrying with it a cool, refreshing chill. People wandered lazily along the sidewalk, some humming faintly, others lost in thought or conversation. Everything, for this brief sliver of time, was perfectly, impossibly peaceful.
And then—he felt it.
He sensed it first, before sound or sight, a shift in the air, a subtle disturbance rippling beneath the calm. The souls. Alma's head lifted instinctively, his eyes locking upward—and then widening, his breath catching in shock, terror, and sheer disbelief.
A Beast of Ruin had appeared.
It was colossal, dwarfing most nearby structures, nearly matching in size of the terrifying Beast of Ruin he had once face—the one with the cannon and sword. Its form was grotesque, a nightmare stitched together from incompatible shapes: a bloated face resembling a blobfish, the elongated body of a seahorse, and monstrous spider-like legs that stepped effortlessly through open air. From its revolting maw, a swirling mass of light began to form — vibrant green and molten orange blending together into a nauseating, sickly brown. The orb was dense, volatile, a raw concentration of pure energy, and Alma recognized immediately the dreadful truth: this creature was the second largest amalgamation of lost souls he had ever encountered.
"Right here?!" Alma shouted, his voice sharp with disbelief as his gaze remained locked on the monstrosity.
Before he could ready Spear, before his body could even act, a blur of motion cut across his vision. A figure crashed into the Beast of Ruin with impossible force, knocking the monster off balance. The blast of stored energy slipped free, spiraling violently into the distance until it detonated far above the Atlantic Ocean, shaking the ground and dimming the light from the sky.
The figure nearly sent the Beast of Ruin careening into the capital below but struck again at the last possible moment, redirecting it with a brutal counterblow that sent the monstrosity soaring higher into the air. Then came an onslaught—attacks raining from every angle in a relentless barrage, the figure moving too fast to follow, little more than a phantom blur carving through the sky. The Beast of Ruin had no chance to recover, no chance even to breathe.
As the battle unfolded, Alma caught his first real glimpse of the figure: a man, clad in a skin-tight blue spandex suit, his face obscured beneath a black sack pulled low over his head.
Alma stared upward, frozen—not in awe of the Beast's overwhelming size, nor of the sheer force behind the figure's attacks, but because this was happening at all. There was another person here. Someone besides him. Someone fighting a Beast of Ruin.
For so long, despite knowing that Monarchs existed, despite knowing others like him stood against these horrors, Alma had moved through life as though he were alone. And yet this was the first time he had actually witnessed one of them in action. But something about the figure unsettled him. Something felt wrong. He couldn't name it yet, couldn't draw any certain conclusion, but the unease crawled across his mind all the same. Something was bad. He knew it.
Then, without warning, one of the Beast's massive legs swung outward, catching the figure squarely and hurling him violently into several nearby buildings. The crash sent clouds of shattered concrete into the air. Alma tracked the figure's path with narrowed eyes, his entire body tensing as he bolted toward one of the taller structures, sprinting up its face in seconds.
From the rooftop, the chaos unfolded beneath him. Multiple people were plummeting from the buildings the Monarch's impact had destroyed. But instead of helping them, instead of even pausing, the figure simply turned and flew away, abandoning them to their fate. Alma's jaw clenched, teeth grinding as anger surged in his chest, and without hesitation, he launched himself forward.
He raced straight up the side of another collapsing building, catching each person midair, one after the other, lowering them safely to the ground below. None of them even had time to comprehend what had saved them before Alma disappeared again, vanishing into motion.
On a nearby street, a woman dressed in a white turtleneck, pink earmuffs, dark blue jeans, and black boots stood smiling faintly, her expensive camera raised as she recorded the battle unfolding in the sky, eager to post the chaos later.
Alma darted through the crowded streets of Bethesda, the epicenter of the calamity. The Beast's sudden arrival had thrown the city into disarray —people screamed and scattered, cars jammed intersections, horns blaring as drivers fought to escape. Yet amid the panic, a few brave—or reckless—citizens stood rooted in place, phones lifted high, desperate to capture the spectacle. However, their phones would never capture what they saw.
And then a thought struck Alma, piercing through the noise.
How could they even see it?
He had sensed the Beast's presence long before anyone else, long before there were screams or sirens. Yet now, all around him, ordinary people were staring directly at it, filming it, reacting to it. That wasn't possible. Not without activating Evil Eyes or Eyes of Despair. Neither he nor any other normal human should have been able to perceive the Beast at all. So then… how?
Lost in thought, Alma surged past the woman with the camera, the wind generated by his speed knocking her flat on her face. Cursing under her breath, she pushed her hair aside, scrambling to recover her equipment. She raised the camera again, this time pointing it where Alma had vanished, hoping to catch even a blur.
"I have no idea what that was," she whispered into her recording, voice breathless. "But it knocked me straight on my ass. It was like a gust of wind, except… it wasn't. It was solid. Whatever it was, it was fast."
---
Each time the Monarch crashed into a building, or when he was about to plummet into a crowd of terrified citizens, Alma was there—swift and precise—pulling them out of harm's way.
Again and again, without pause or hesitation, Alma moved at blinding speeds, rescuing as many as he possibly could, his instincts firing faster than thought or sight, reacting and adapting to the chaos unfolding around him.
The Monarch, however, never once tried to save them. Despite having countless opportunities, he simply refused. Why would he? His life was never in danger. He wasn't helpless against the fall. He could fly—he could overpower any human on Earth. So why should he care who lived or died? To him, people were nothing more than tools, and the only thing that mattered was what he could take from them.
Alma saved one person, then another, and another still. The cycle was growing tedious, but he would not stop—not while anyone trapped in the chaos between the Monarch and the Beast of Ruin still needed rescuing. As long as they were safe, Alma would be fine.
Catching yet another fleeing civilian, Alma felt his patience with the Monarch finally shatter. He had believed the Monarch's goal was to kill the Beast of Ruin, but the truth was clearer now—the Monarch was only showing off for the cameras, caring more for spectacle than salvation.
The recordings would never reveal how many lives the Monarch had abandoned, nor how many Alma had saved. In a way, that was a blessing in disguise—for both of them.
However, the time for such spectacles had to end, lest the battle take an unexpected turn for the absolute worst.
Alma sprinted through the streets at blinding speeds, weaving effortlessly around vehicles, obstacles, and crowds. In a single motion, he scaled a building and dashed across several rooftops before stopping atop the one closest to the fight, his gaze locked firmly on the unfolding battle.
"This guy doesn't care about these people at all!" Alma shouted, his voice tight with anger.
Fury burned through him, sharp and unyielding. It was by no means murderous, and it wasn't disappointment—it was disbelief. Outrage. This Monarch had the power to save lives, to protect innocents, and yet he had chosen recklessness instead. He could have ended this faster, drawn the fight away from the city, spared these people the chaos and destruction.
He knew what had to be done—raise his arm, unleash Spear, and end the Beast of Ruin. Easy. Simple. Effortless.
But this rage… this anger burning within him—it was different. Unlike before, when his fury had always been born of hatred and wrath, this was something else entirely.
This was an anger unlike any he had ever known—unlike anything anyone could know. For the first time in his life, he felt a rage that wasn't wild, wasn't aimless, wasn't consuming.
This rage felt so... correct.
And then, suddenly, something shifted.
From that anger, from the deep well of his rage, a storm was born.
Below, the Monarch was slammed through another cluster of high-rises, sending entire upper halves of buildings collapsing into the streets below. But just as the debris rained downward, it stopped—frozen mid-fall, colliding and merging into a massive platform, wide enough to cradle every single person in danger. Slowly, steadily, the platform descended, as though guided by an invisible will, and when it touched the ground, it crumbled gently to ruble.
Alma stood upon a different rooftop, one hand extended, his expression serene, his gaze empty, and lifeless.
This was the breeze of The Storm.
His attention shifted back to the battlefield, where the Monarch and the Beast of Ruin clashed violently, tearing through the skyline. The Monarch severed one of the creature's colossal limbs, sending the enormous appendage crashing onto three buildings, reducing them to rubble in an instant. If the fight continued like this, more lives would be lost, and the destruction would only escalate.
Another limb fell, this time directly toward a crowd of terrified civilians. But before it could reach them, Alma moved, faster than thought, saving every last person before the appendage had even descended halfway.
This was the current of The Storm.
A third limb was sliced free, crashing into the ground some distance away. Alma had thought no one was in harm's way, but the sheer force of its impact sent shockwaves rippling through the earth, toppling other nearby buildings. Luckily, they were empty—but the falling debris threatened dozens of bystanders below. There were too many to reach, too many scattered across too wide an area. And yet, Alma didn't hesitate. He swept his right hand outward, and an unseen force lifted them all into the air, carrying them gently to safety.
This was the force of The Storm.
Alma reappeared atop another rooftop, his sharp gaze fixed on the Monarch and the Beast of Ruin as they fought.
Above, the sky had changed. Where it had once been calm and clear, it now churned with violence. Clouds thickened and darkened, twisting into a vortex, their edges bleeding into a deep, blood-red hue. The wind howled as a colossal spiral formed, descending from the sky in one massive tail. By the time either the Monarch or the Beast of Ruin realized what was happening, it was already too late.
"The False Storm: Gale."
A voice spoke from somewhere around them, disembodied yet omnipresent, booming within the tornado, as if the very air carried the sound.
This… was The Storm.
Before anyone could comprehend what had happened, the world around them was consumed by chaos. A colossal tornado erupted into existence, enveloping them completely. Rain poured relentlessly from the vortex's towering heights, cascading down like sheets of liquid glass, while the wind screamed with a haunting ferocity—a sound that carried the weight of death itself. Yet despite the storm's monstrous violence, neither was the Beast of Ruin nor the Monarch thrown about. Instead, they floated within the raging tempest, suspended in midair as though gravity itself had been rewritten. Lightning tore across the walls of the tornado, striking in unpredictable bursts, always seeming to draw nearer but never quite touching them.
The eye of the storm loomed far above, impossibly distant—so high it felt infinite. Perhaps not truly so, but in that moment, it might as well have been. The vortex was narrow at its base, tightly coiled, but widened dramatically as it rose, expanding until the storm's upper reaches seemed to engulf the sky itself. The spiraling clouds stretched so far upward that they pierced the edge of the atmosphere, blanketing the entire state of Maryland beneath their oppressive shadow.
Then—lightning struck.
A blinding flash lanced down from above, searing through the air before tearing into the Beast of Ruin. Its grotesque body convulsed violently as the force hurled it through the spiraling winds. Another bolt followed, then another, until a barrage of lightning rained down upon the creature, each strike more devastating than the last. The thunderclaps were deafening, their vibrations strong enough to shake the earth and send shockwaves tearing into the void of space itself.
And yet, despite the chaos, not a single building crumbled. Not a single life was harmed. People and structures alike remained untouched, suspended lower within the storm's embrace.
The Monarch stared in disbelief, his mind racing to keep pace with what unfolded before his eyes. When had this storm formed? How had he not sensed it? Why weren't the people being swept away? Why was only the Beast of Ruin suffering the wrath of the tornado?
Then he saw it—Alma.
Through the flashing lights and swirling chaos, he caught a glimpse of a figure amid the storm's fury. The lightning wasn't wild or natural. It wasn't born of the weather. It was being summoned—controlled. Each strike coincided with Alma's movements, each blast aligned perfectly with the rhythm of his blows. The Monarch couldn't see Alma's expression—only his back—but he understood immediately: this destruction was deliberate.
What was perhaps even more shocking was that Alma was managing to inflict any damage at all. The extent of the injuries was significant, yet what unsettled the Monarch more was the fact that Alma could cause any harm using only his fists.
The Monarch sensed nothing unusual emanating from Alma; however, the raging tornado surrounding them attributed to the disruption the Monarch faced with even moving his own body.
Alma's punches landed so fast, so violently, that the air itself combusted with electricity. To the Monarch, it was as if lightning itself had taken human form, striking at one-tenth of a second with relentless precision.
Alma's face was calm. His eyes were lifeless, devoid of warmth or thought. This was no outburst, no conscious display of strength—the storm was his anger made manifest. The tornado, the lightning, the chaos—it was all a false storm, born solely from Alma's current, tremendous rage, yet mimicking the destructive power of nature itself.
In that moment... Alma had become The Storm itself.
His strikes hammered into the Beast of Ruin, tearing its grotesque form apart with unrelenting force. Blow after blow rained down until its body neared total deformation, its unnatural structure breaking beneath his fury. Then, with one final, devastating punch, Alma unleashed everything. Lightning surged from his fist, consuming the Beast entirely, releasing a shockwave infused with lightning within the tornado, sending a tingling charge through the air and raising the hairs on everyone's skin, shattering the Beast of Ruin's form and freeing every trapped soul within it. The rolling wave of thunder tore through the sky, echoing across the entire state, a sound so powerful it rattled the bones of all who heard it.
Alma floated in the air, silent, his back still turned toward the Monarch.
The Monarch stared, caught between awe and fear, unable to reconcile what he had just witnessed. Alma turned his head slightly, just enough for their eyes to meet—and in that instant, the Monarch's breath caught in his throat. The gaze he met was hollow, distant, and cold.
Suddenly, Alma vanished.
A blur of motion carried him above and to the left of the Monarch before his senses could even process it, his right foot on the Monarch's shoulder.
"Next victim," Alma said, his voice sharp and frigid, slicing through the roar of the storm.
The Monarch's eyes widened in horror. He spun instinctively, only to find nothing there. Rain thickened around him, falling harder than before, drenching his vision and shrouding the battlefield in darkness. Even the ground, albeit far beneath his feet, disappeared beneath the cascading sheets.
Driven by desperation, the Monarch raised both of his hands, forming a handsign. It was obvious that he was attempting to cast something. Something that Alma had yet to witness.
"Dimension Cre—"
He never finished. Alma's fist connected with his jaw in a single, lightning-charged strike, the blow carrying the force of a thunderclap. The Monarch was hurled to the ground with such force that a crater formed upon impact, crumpling instantly, unconscious before his body even hit the ground.
The storm dissolved around them. The tornado faded into nothing, the spiraling clouds dissipated, and the sky cleared, returning to its tranquil, unbroken blue as though none of it had ever happened.
Alma was satisfied, and so his anger was gone... right along with him.
The Monarch lay motionless on the ground, beaten and broken, while the rest of the world remained bewildered, unaware of the true scale of what had just transpired.
---
October 25th, 2032 — 6:50 P.M.
Alma rested beneath the shade of a solitary tree, his body reclined against the trunk as both hands supported the back of his head. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady and controlled, but his mind was anything but calm.
He thought back to what he had done not even two hours earlier, and a quiet, displeased sigh escaped his lips. He should have killed that Monarch. Alma knew it. Leaving him alive was a mistake—someone like that was nothing but a threat to others. In truth, every Monarch was. And yet, when it came down to it, even in his moment of unrestrained rage, Alma couldn't bring himself to deliver the final blow.
Why?
His thoughts drifted—unbidden, unwanted—to that facility beneath the church. Every time his mind wandered there, the memory left a bitter taste lingering on his tongue. His hands, already stained with the blood of both the guilty and the innocent, carried the weight of choices he could never undo. He had sworn never to kill again without reason, one that didn't include a personal issue, even when faced with true evil. But this time… that vow hadn't been what stopped him.
Not even Alma knew why he hadn't finished it. Every logical explanation he reached crumbled beneath the weight of reality. Perhaps he had changed. Perhaps Jasmine had softened him. Or perhaps there was another reason entirely, one he couldn't name. Whatever the cause, the outcome remained: the Monarch lived.
Alma sighed again, this one heavier, before rising to his feet. He brushed himself off and left the quiet forest behind, running swiftly back into town. Within minutes, he arrived at his apartment, stepping inside and locking the door behind him. The clock read 6:57 P.M. Tonight, he would make spaghetti—one of Jasmine's favorites.
A few minutes after seven, the door opened. Roseanne entered, Jasmine's small hand clasped in hers. The girl immediately broke away and ran toward Alma, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist.
"How was your day with Roseanne?" Alma asked, dropping the pasta into the boiling pot.
"It was super fun! We checked out the White House and went to a bunch of theme parks!" Jasmine exclaimed, bouncing up and down with unrestrained joy.
"Oh, really? That sounds like fun. I'm glad you had a good day," Alma said, gently patting her head.
"I did!" she replied before darting into the living room.
"Now, go take your shower," Alma called after her. "Dinner will be ready in an hour."
Roseanne lingered by the kitchen doorway, drawing Alma's attention. He raised an eyebrow.
"Is there something you need? Do you want to eat with us?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No… I just wanted to say thank you. Truly. I can't even imagine my life before meeting you two. I don't know how I even kept going back then." A small, soft smile touched her lips.
Alma returned it faintly. "I'm happy we could help. Jasmine really enjoys your company. She's opened up a lot to me ever since you came into her life."
"That's good," Roseanne said, her voice quieter now. "I just… hope I'm not being an extra burden."
"You're not," Alma reassured her firmly. "If anything, you've been a relief. I've been tending to Jasmine nonstop—and I'd never stop—but you've given me moments to rest. More than that, you've made her happy. Sometimes happier than I can. So, no, you're not a burden." He rested his hand lightly on her shoulder.
Roseanne nodded, visibly relieved, her smile softening. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Alma replied simply, turning back to stir the pasta.
Roseanne started to leave but hesitated, glancing back at him. "Hey… did you hear about what happened today?" she asked carefully, her tone edged with apprehension.
"Hear about what?" Alma asked without looking up.
"A Beast of Ruin appeared in town, and a Monarch showed up almost instantly to fight it. Thank goodness he was there to stop it," Roseanne said.
Alma raised an eyebrow slightly, though he kept his focus on the pot. She was definitely referring to the same Monarch and Beast he had faced, yet there was no mention of the tornado—not a word about the storm that had swallowed the sky. How could no one have seen it?
"Really? How did the fight go? Did the Monarch say anything?" Alma asked, keeping his tone casual.
"They said he was thrown through multiple buildings but saved everyone inside before they could fall. He struck down the Beast before it could cause any more damage, but… he collapsed afterward from exhaustion. He saved so many people. What a hero," Roseanne said, her admiration clear.
Alma's jaw tightened imperceptibly, his eyes twitching faintly with frustration.
"Wow, really? That's… something else," he muttered, refusing to offer further praise.
"Yeah, it was amazing," Roseanne said brightly before noticing the time. "Well, I should get home. Tell Jasmine I love her—and thank you again." She gave a small wave before leaving the apartment, the door closing softly behind her.
Alma was left alone with his thoughts, the boiling pot of water, and the pasta cooking within it. His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to process the information Roseanne had relayed. Not once had she mentioned the weather—no comment on its strangeness, not even a hint that anything seemed out of the ordinary. Strangely enough, neither had the Monarch.
One would think that anyone capable of knocking out a Monarch with a single strike would be considered a serious threat, yet there was no acknowledgment of that. Was it embarrassment? Pride? Alma had no way of knowing. Something about the situation felt fundamentally off.
How could anyone have missed it? A tornado of that magnitude, larger than any recorded in history. Alma wrestled with possibilities, hunting for a rational explanation that might make sense of the impossible.
Fifteen minutes later, Jasmine emerged from the bathroom. Alma had just finished browning the meat and was preparing to drain the grease from the pan.
Once drained, he opened a can of sauce, pouring it into the skillet. Filling the empty can with water from a jug, he scraped along the edges with a silver spoon to gather every last bit, then added that to the pan. With a careful stir, the sauce melded into the meat.
Jasmine sat at the kitchen table, her attention on a small unicorn toy. Alma approached, carrying a glass plate and a pink plastic bowl. He placed the bowl before Jasmine, a small silver fork resting inside, while setting his plate on the opposite side of her.
Quickly, he returned to the kitchen and came back with a salt shaker and a plastic bottle of grated Parmesan. Handing them to Jasmine, he watched as she sprinkled salt into her bowl, then returned the containers so he could season his own plate.
In the process, Alma accidentally dropped his fork onto the floor.
"Ah, dang it," he muttered, frustration lacing his calm tone.
Bending down, he searched for the fork—under the table, beneath his chair—but found nothing. When he looked back at the table, the fork had inexplicably returned to its original spot. Alma stared at it, unmasked confusion on his face, scratching the back of his head.
"Huh?" he murmured, bewildered.
Jasmine continued eating, oblivious to Alma's puzzlement. With a sigh, he pushed the chair closer and sat down, choosing to set aside the strange occurrence and enjoy the meal before it cooled.
---
As bedtime arrived, they performed their nightly routine, said a prayer, and lay down.
For Jasmine, sleep came swiftly, swallowing her whole as exhaustion from the day overtook her. Alma, however, found rest elusive. The unanswered questions lingered: the tornado that no one had mentioned, the fork that had seemingly moved on its own. After seeing the fork fall, he could have sworn he glimpsed Jasmine's arm before bending down to retrieve it.
He didn't dwell on it, though—probably just her excitement—but the nagging sense of strangeness refused to leave his mind, settling alongside him as he stared at the ceiling, wide awake.
However, after several long minutes, sleep finally came.