– Just One Day Off
POV: First Person (Silas)
I woke up groggy as hell.
The light leaking through the window was way too aggressive, and my mouth tasted like leftover whiskey and regret. But all things considered? I felt… okay. The healing factor was doing its thing.
Brian, on the other hand, was dying.
Dude was curled into the fetal position on the couch; a throw pillow clutched to his chest like a life raft. When I nudged him, he groaned like someone had just punched him in the liver.
"Kill me later," he muttered. "Let me sleep now."
"Fair enough."
I shuffled into the kitchen and popped some bread into the toaster. The TV was already on—someone must've left it running all night. I plopped down with a bowl of cereal and glanced up at the screen.
"—live in Midtown, where Spider-Man is currently engaged in a high-intensity battle with what appears to be Doctor Octopus. That's right, folks, Doc Ock is back, and he's—wait, he just threw a car—"
The footage cut to shaky helicopter cam: Spidey flipping through traffic while four mechanical arms tried to swat him like a bug.
I blinked once. Took a bite of cereal.
"Meh," I muttered. "Too early for this shit."
It looked like a one-on-one fight. Nothing too crazy. Besides, the guy could handle himself. Dude punched me through a vent and still had jokes. He'd be fine.
I tuned it out and kept eating.
A few minutes later, my mom walked in, holding a white paper slip.
"Silas, the tailor called. Your tuxedo's ready."
I raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
"They already took your measurements, remember? Just go pick it up."
"Cool."
After breakfast and a quick shower, I threw on a hoodie and jeans, slipped in my earbuds, and headed out.
City streets were crowded like usual—honking cars, yelling vendors, the occasional lunatic preacher with a bullhorn. I let it all blur around me, the music in my ears drowning most of it out.
The shop wasn't far. A small place tucked between a nail salon and a bodega. Clean glass windows. Fancy little bell over the door.
"Ah! You're the cousin of the bride, yes?" the tailor said, smiling.
"That's me."
He brought out the tux in a sleek black garment bag. I tried it on in the back. It fit like a dream. Not too tight. Not too loose. Crisp lapels. Clean shoulders. Minimalist and elegant.
"Perfect," he said, clapping his hands.
I agreed.
He zipped it up and handed me the garment bag, and I was back on the sidewalk ten minutes later, music back in my ears.
I started walking back toward the apartment. Head bobbing a little to the beat. Just vibing.
But halfway through the second song, that feeling hit me.
That sharp twist in the gut.
I stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk.
Pulled the earbuds out.
Looked around.
No one suspicious. Just tourists, couples, delivery guys, the usual crowd. But that sinking weight sat heavy in my chest.
Something wasn't right.
Something was watching me.
I scanned the rooftops. Checked the alleyways. Paused just long enough to look like I was tying my shoe while peeking behind me.
Nothing.
But I knew that feeling.
I'd learned to trust it.
And it wasn't going away.
I looked across the street—and that's when I saw it.
A strange building. A brownstone that looked too clean, too quiet, like it didn't belong here. Like it had been dropped into the city from another time.
I frowned.
Something about it pulled at me.
I crossed the street slowly; eyes fixed on the doorway. Each step made the sensation stronger—like my belt was reacting to it.
When I reached the steps, I hesitated. I was about to knock when that familiar Black instinct kicked in—the one that screamed "Mind your damn business."
I turned to leave.
But the door creaked open all by itself.
Standing in the doorway was a man draped in deep blue robes and a long crimson cloak that fluttered like it had a will of its own. His hair was slicked back with silver streaks at the temples. Yellow gloves. Goatee. Calm expression, like he'd been expecting me.
"Mr. Stone," he said. "Please. Come in. We have things to discuss."
I blinked. "Do I know you?"
He didn't answer. Just turned and walked back into the building like it was already decided.
I looked back toward the street. Looked forward again. Then, cautiously, I stepped inside.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the door swung shut behind me. On its own.
I raised an eyebrow, turned around, and tried opening it again.
It swung open—and I saw… Malaysia?
Shops with curling foreign script. Bright sunlight. People in street markets speaking a language I didn't understand. The smell of chili oil and incense in the air.
I stared. Then closed the door, shook my head, opened it again.
London. Big Ben in the distance. Foggy skies. Brits walking in heavy coats with tea in their hands like it was a requirement.
"…Okay, maybe I'm still drunk."
I shut the door slowly. Turned to follow the wizard.
I caught up to him deeper in the house, stepping past relics, floating candles, and a corridor that looked like it led to space itself.
Doctor Strange stopped in the middle of a circular chamber—part library, part war room. Walls lined with glowing glyphs. Floating candles. An entire section of the ceiling showing a swirling starfield.
Then he turned and looked straight at me.
"On a more important note…"
His gaze dropped to my waist. He raised a gloved finger and pointed directly at the belt.
"We need to talk about that."
I looked down. "The belt?"
"Yes," he said. "That thing around your waist is not just gear. It's an artifact. A very old and very dangerous one. Possibly the only one of its kind still in existence."
I stayed quiet.
"That belt is one of the only known gateways between this world and the world in-between—a place beyond dimension, beyond understanding. Some call it the Void. Others, the Shadow Realm. The Shadow verse."
He conjured glowing glyphs mid-air. "Different cultures have interpreted it differently. The Norse called it Ginnungagap, the Yawning Void. African folklore speaks of Shadow People—beings that walk in liminal space. Slavic mythology tells of Veles, God of the underworld and shadows."
"They were all trying to describe the same thing," he said. "The Shadow verse."
"I've studied artifacts like this for years—guarding them, hiding them. The Shadow verse appears only in fragments of prophecy. It is a place full of spirits, forgotten energy, and things that must never be released into this world."
He stepped toward me. "So that begs the question, kid… how the hell do you have something like that around your waist?"
I looked at him. "It's not even mine. It was my friend's. Back in Detroit."
He said nothing.
"We were coming back from a party. Both of us drunk. Car crash. I nearly died. He didn't make it."
I paused. "I needed a heart transplant. He was a match. So, they… they gave me his."
Strange's eyes narrowed slightly.
"After the funeral, his mom gave me a box of his things. Old comics, weird souvenirs, junk. The belt was in there. I didn't think much of it."
"One day I put it on. And… everything changed. I started phasing through walls, teleporting, seeing shit I couldn't explain."
I scratched the back of my neck. "He left a USB too. With some notes. Said weird stuff was happening to him when he wore it. But I deleted the files. Thought it was nonsense."
Strange nodded once, then gestured to the center table. "May I examine it?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
I slipped the belt off and laid it down.
He raised his hands in that weird Spider-Man-pose-looking gesture, and golden rings spun into existence. Light flared from his palms. Symbols swirled midair.
He chanted in a language I didn't understand—low, rhythmic, heavy.
He passed his hands over the belt, eyes shut, mumbling the whole time.
Finally, he exhaled, let the magic fade, and looked at me.
"Well," he said, "I have good news and bad news."
"Start with the good."
"Your friend wasn't bonded to it. He wore it, yes, and it gave him some minor boosts. But the belt didn't accept him. It tolerated him."
"And the bad news?"
"It's bonded to you. Fully. That makes you a resident of the Shadow verse now—a part of it. And it's watching you. It's listening."
I swallowed.
"That place," Strange continued, "is home to vengeful spirits, forgotten gods, fractured dimensions. If even a piece of it leaks out into this world…"
He met my eyes.
"…we're epically screwed."
I tried to keep my voice steady. "I've been in and out. Every time I teleport, I pass through it."
"Nothing's happened to you?"
"Not yet."
He scratched his goatee, thoughtful. "Then either you're lucky… or something in there has taken an interest in you."
He folded his arms. "Be cautious. That power is not a gift. It's a test. And if you misuse it, you may be the one who dooms us all."
Then he offered a hand. "Right. I'm Doctor Stephen Strange. Sorcerer of the Sanctum Sanctorum."
I blinked. "Sanctum what now?"
He gestured around. "The building you're in."
"Oh. Cool."
I took his hand. "Silas Stone. But you already knew that, so… I guess that makes this weird."
"Still polite."
I smirked. "If we ever meet again, do me a favor—call ahead. This wizard horror house thing is giving me anxiety."
He gave a small chuckle. "Fair enough."
I looked toward the door. "Mind making that open back to New York? Your freaky house is messing with my head."
Strange snapped his fingers.
The door creaked open. Same street. Same sidewalk. Same city.
I stepped through, glanced back one last time.
"This is just weird on so many levels," I muttered. "First goblins, now robot arms, now a fucking wizard. If this was Africa… we'd be screaming Jesus Christ, dis na real-life juju."