The cemetery was quieter than usual.
No cars passed on the street. No birds called from the crooked trees overhead. Just wind — soft, but cold — and the crunch of gravel under Leo Foster's beat-up sneakers.
Every step sounded louder here. Like the world was listening.
He hated coming, but he came anyway. Every week. Same day. Same time.
3:04 p.m.
The time they said Tyler died.
The time the world stopped being fair.
Leo crouched in front of the headstone, pulling his hoodie tighter around his thin arms. His breath curled into fog. The wind carried that sharp, smoky chill only October knew how to breathe. Dead leaves — brown, torn, ghost-like — swirled at his feet as if they too had nowhere else to go.
….
TYLER FOSTER
1998–2013
"A brother. A light. A hero."
….
"Hey," Leo muttered. "It's been a while, I know."
His voice came out thinner than he expected. It barely stirred the air. The lump in his throat hit faster today. Maybe because this was the third October without Tyler. Or maybe because, no matter how many times he came here, the weight in his chest never got lighter.
"I've been good," he lied. "I mean… Grandma's still working nights, and school sucks. But I'm still passing. Still drawing. Still…" He trailed off, fingers brushing nervously through his tangled black hair.
The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that crept into your bones and made you feel like you were made of glass.
Then, softer — almost like a prayer:
"I miss you."
He stared at the grave, hoping for something. A whisper. A warmth. A sign.
Nothing.
Just the carved name in the granite, the grass trying to grow around it, and the wind refusing to let the past rest.
Tyler had always been the loudest in the room. Unapologetic. Brave. A kid who'd laugh in a bully's face, then turn around and walk Leo through his fractions. Leo was eleven and Tyler was 20, when he died. Hit-and-run, they said. No suspects. No arrests. Just a red blur on a security camera and a city that moved on.
….
Leo never moved on.
He sat cross-legged in the grass, not caring about the damp that soaked into his jeans. From his backpack, he pulled out his sketchbook and flipped it open to a half-finished, page a boy in a cape, hovering over a city.
It was Tyler. It was always Tyler.
Different poses, different colors. But the same face. The same smile.
The kind of smile that made you believe things could get better.
"Stupid, huh?" Leo said, showing the drawing to the stone. "I still draw you like you've got powers. Like you're still flying around, watching me screw up."
The wind shifted. A single crow landed on a fence post nearby. It watched him in eerie silence, head cocked.
Leo lowered the sketchbook.
"Everyone says heroes aren't real," he murmured. "They say no one comes to save you."
He clenched his fists.
"But you did. Every time."
Calloused knuckles. Thin, scarred hands. Three fights already this semester — all because someone said the wrong thing about Tyler. Or about him. Or about what "Foster kids" grow into.
(They don't know anything.)
He looked down at his palms.
"I wanna be like you. I just don't know how."
Suddenly — pain.
Sharp. Unexpected. Deep in his left palm.
Leo gasped and jerked back, eyes wide. A tiny line of blood welled up from the center of his hand. It wasn't a cut. It looked too perfect. Too thin. Like a needle prick, but deeper — almost like something had entered, not exited.
"What the hell…?"
He looked around, half expecting to find a thorn, a nail, anything — but the grass was clean.
He wiped the blood on his jeans. The pain pulsed, radiating up his wrist and into his chest like a second heartbeat.
Then it was gone.
Leo slowly stood, his mind racing. But he forced the panic down. Buried it. He gave the grave a final look.
"I'll come back next week," he whispered. "Same time. You better be listening, bro. I've got stuff to tell you."
He turned to go — not knowing that something nearly invisible slithered out from the tiny slit in his wrist.
A thread.
Thin as spider silk. Shimmering like breath on glass.
It slid into his sleeve.
And followed.
…
Chicago was loud. Even when it wasn't.
Sidewalks cracked and stained. Gum, oil slicks, cigarette butts. Horns in the distance. A man shouting at no one. A woman dragging a stroller while arguing on speakerphone. Leo moved through it all with his hoodie up and earbuds in — though nothing played.
It wasn't about music. It was about armor.
But something felt off today.
The city felt tighter.
People brushed past him. Faces blurred. Voices slurred. But Leo… felt them. Felt too much. Not just the words — but the frustration. The fatigue. The noise behind the noise.
(Why does everything feel louder?)
He shook it off. Took the alley behind Ms. Rosario's bakery. Same shortcut he always used. Narrow walls. Garbage bins. Tags and murals in layers.
Halfway through, he stopped.
A low growl cut the air.
A rottweiler stood at the far end of the alley. Muzzled in dirt. Muscles taut. Foam at its jaws. Eyes locked on him.
Leo froze.
The chain snapped.
"Sh—!"
He turned and ran. Legs pumping. Heart thundering. The dog barked — a deep, awful sound — and closed the gap fast.
Leo didn't think. Just moved.
He threw himself up at the fire escape, arms reaching for the cold metal—
And stuck.
His fingers clung to the slick bar like suction cups. He scrambled upward in jerky bursts, each step unnaturally fast. Gravity didn't fight him. It felt like his body had rewired.
He landed on the second-story platform and looked down, panting. The dog snapped and howled below, unable to follow.
Leo stared at his hands.
Warm. Red. Tingling.
The hand with the wound throbbed again.
This time, he saw it.
A line — faint as light — slipped from his wrist and spun in the air like a living string. It floated between his fingers, shimmering faintly.
He screamed. Swatted at it. But it didn't go away.
It moved with his thoughts.
Curled. Twisted. Danced like it understood him.
Then, just as fast, it sank back into his skin. The slit closed.
Gone.
That night, Leo sat in his dark room.
Blanket around his shoulders. Sketchbook on the floor. His grandma's TV mumbled in the next room. Another old game show. Another night pretending everything was normal.
But it wasn't.
He stared at his hand again.
It was still.
No glow. No silk. No sign.
He sighed. Closed his eyes. Thought of Tyler — his voice, his grin, the way he ruffled Leo's hair like he was invincible.
And then — the thread returned.
Soft and brief. Like a ghost testing the air.
It hovered just long enough for Leo to whisper:
"What's happening to me?"
He didn't have the answer.
But deep in his chest — beneath the fear, beneath the ache — something pulsed again.
Like fire learning how to burn.
And somewhere inside it, a voice not quite his own whispered back:
You're becoming something new.
…
Leo didn't go to school the next day. He didn't even tell his grandma.
He sat at his desk, staring at his hand as the sun shifted through the blinds, casting long shadows on the room. His sketchbook lay open beside him, pages filled with drawings of heroes. But now, they seemed distant. Like someone else's dreams. His fingers kept itching, the memory of the thread still fresh in his mind.
What was happening to him?
The pain hadn't returned since last night, but his mind couldn't let go of the strange, shimmering thread. It had felt like something alive, like it was waiting for him to understand, to do something with it. But what?
(Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe I'm just freaking out.)
He leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his messy black hair, his eyes moving to the small window. Outside, the world kept moving — people walking, cars honking, life happening. But for him, everything had stopped.
The morning came and went. The afternoon too. But still, Leo didn't leave his room. He wasn't avoiding it. He was just trying to piece things together, trying to find a reason behind everything. There had to be one, right?
He checked his phone. There were texts from his classmates, some asking where he was, some just checking in. He hadn't answered any of them. Not today. Not since last night.
(I should at least tell Grandma I'm okay.)
He sighed and grabbed his phone, but before he could open the messages, something caught his eye — a flash of light, a flicker of movement. His heart skipped. His mind raced back to the alley and the moment his fingers had latched onto the fire escape.
(What if… what if this is real?)
He took a deep breath, pushing the thought aside. There was no way it could be real. Spider powers like Spider-Man? Heroes? That was stuff for comic books, not for him. Not for someone like him.
He couldn't stop the flashback — the way his body had moved without thinking. The way the thread had danced in the air, how it had felt like it was controlling him instead of the other way around.
(I need to test it.)
The thought was like a jolt of electricity. Before he could think twice, Leo stood up, grabbed his jacket, and marched out of his room.
His grandma was still in the kitchen, humming to herself, flipping through a cookbook. She didn't even look up when Leo passed by.
"Hey, Grandma," Leo called out.
She glanced over. "You alright? You haven't been to school today."
Leo hesitated. "Yeah, just not feeling well."
"Take care of yourself," she said, her voice warm but distracted. She was still wrapped up in the cookbook, probably looking for a new recipe. Grandma was always busy with something.
…
As Leo stepped outside, the chill of the city air hitting his face like a slap. He needed answers. Needed to feel something real again. The city wasn't going to give him any answers, but maybe the streets would — the back alleys, the forgotten corners. Somewhere out there, he'd find what he was looking for.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd find a piece of himself too.
As he walked, his mind drifted to Tyler. His brother had always been so sure of himself, so confident. Tyler had never hesitated when it came to doing the right thing. And now, Leo felt like a shadow of that. Like he wasn't even close to being the hero Tyler had been.
But the thread… it was real. And maybe, just maybe, Leo could use it. He could be a Hero like he wanted to be.
The city was chaotic as always. Cars honked, people shouted, and the smell of fast food and gasoline hung thick in the air. Leo navigated the streets with his hoodie pulled low, his hands buried in his pockets.
He turned a corner, heading toward the alley where he'd been chased by the dog the day before. The place was empty now, quiet. Just a few scattered wrappers, some broken glass glinting in the sunlight.
(Alright. Time to test this.)
Leo closed his eyes, focusing on his left hand. He'd felt the thread once before. He needed to make it happen again. He needed to make sure this wasn't some hallucination.
He imagined it — the way the thread had moved the night before. A thin, shimmering line that had danced between his fingers. It felt unnatural, like it didn't belong.
For a moment, nothing happened. He stood there, his fingers twitching, waiting for something, anything. His heart pounded in his chest, nervous excitement building up.
And then, suddenly, the pain. It came like a strike of lightning, sharp and instant, right in the center of his palm. Leo winced and gritted his teeth, clenching his hand.
Then, there it was.
A faint thread — thin, like silk — unfurled from the tiny slit in his wrist. It shimmered in the light, twisting and curling like a living thing. It felt real. Too real. It moved on its own, as if it knew what to do.
Leo couldn't breathe for a second. This time, he didn't scream. He just watched as the thread twisted around his fingers, slowly, almost playfully. It wasn't like he was controlling it, it felt like it was controlling him.
(This is real. It's real. I'm not crazy.)
The thread stretched, stretching until it reached the nearest dumpster. Leo hesitated, but the thread did what he wanted. It pulled. Hard. The dumpster screeched across the pavement, scraping and crashing into a pile of old crates.
Leo's heart skipped. He stared at the dumpster, wide-eyed. The power was in him. This was what it felt like to be a hero.
But as he stared at the dumpster, he realized something else.
(I can do this. But can I control it?)
The thread went slack, slowly sinking back into his wrist. Leo took a breath, his heart racing.
(I need to understand this. I need to figure out what it is. Why me?)
He turned and walked back toward the street, his mind buzzing with questions. For the first time since his brother's death, Leo felt something — something more than grief. Something stronger.
And something darker.
The city wasn't going to give him any answers. But maybe, just maybe, he could find them himself.
To be continue