Chapter 0
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"Hey, tell me... was all this suffering worth it?
Did I save people, or just lose more?" In the distance, my reflection wore a painful smile.
"You did what you could." A shaky breath. "More than I ever could."
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{somewhere else into the near future or to an occurred past}
The laptop's blue glow pulsed in my bedroom, casting shadows across cluttered shelves. Knuckles cracked with a stretch, followed by a lazy groan. Mmmphh. That last headshot in League of Legends—pure clutch. Slumped in the gaming chair, I savored the win, fingers twitching, until reality crashed the party.
A phone buzzed, its screen slicing the gloom.
| 1:09 AM |
Ugh. I rubbed stinging eyes, a sharper groan escaping. Who needs a time machine when ranked matches warp hours? Two warps into five. Einstein's relativity? Amateur hour compared to a late-night gaming session.
Grrrrrr...
Stomach roared like a lion. A crumpled bag of Cool Ranch Doritos—Mom's stash from her last US trip—sat on the desk. I crunched a handful of stale crumbs. Powering down the laptop, another stretch popped the spine like bubble wrap, loud enough to make a chiropractor flinch.
My throat was dry as the empty bag, I shuffled to the dark hallway, moonlight creeping through the window. . My eyes hit Evie's closed door. Bet she's crashed, curled up like a snail in its shell, probably drooling. A cheeky grin spread. Sharpie mustache? Oh, man, picturing her waking up with a wobbly scribble nearly made me laugh out loud. But Mum would lose it at this hour. My head on a plate by breakfast? Nah, not worth it... yet.
In the kitchen, I chugged cold water, soothing a parched throat. The door connected to the shop bellow was still open—Dad still up? He should be asleep by now. The phone kept buzzing. Setting the cup down, I trudged back to my bedroom, face-planting onto the bed. Musty sheets hugged tight. Ignored notifications glowed, screaming for attention.
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[Group Chat: The Eternal Benchwarmers]
┌─── Chat Log ───┐
1:09 AM | ~Max~
So, mates, since we're all single AF, we got zilch for half-term spring break... 'cept our assignments.
1:10 AM | =BennyBoi
Why you gotta rub it in, bro?!
1:11 AM | *$$ Harry$
Idk about y'all, I'm I might legit stepping up to ask out a chick this time.
1:12 AM | =BennyBoi
No shot, dude. I bet £10 you'll you're gonna chicken out again. This is, like, your eighth time hyping this.
1:12 AM | ~Max
Nah, it's he's crossed ten, easy. We should rename the group Harry's Hollow Promises.
1:13 AM | #oliverO#
Yo, lunch tomorrow to plan shit. Or just clown Harry again. P.S. Group name: The Rom-Com Rejects.
1:14 AM | =BennyBoi=
The Tinder Swindlers (But We Got Swindled).
8:15 AM | $$Harry$
...I... fuck y'all hate you lot.
└─── End Log ───┘
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My phone clattered to the floor, and darkness wrapped around me like a warm hug. I was out cold.
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"Wake up Oliver ! Breakfast!" Evie's elbow kept jabbing my ribs like a bony spear. I groaned, tugging the blanket over my head. "Piss off, Evie."
She yanked it off, cold air hitting me like a slap. "Mum says get up, or it's cold water."
I squinted through crusty eyes, her blurry figure looming. "Tell Mom I love her, but waterboarding's before noon is not in my bucket list."
Evie rolled her eyes so hard. "Lazy git."
"Genius needs beauty sleep," I fired back, waving my hand to shoo her. My fingers caught her hair by mistake, and I froze. OH, FUCK.
Evie's face twisted, pure rage. Her teeth sank into my hand like a feral gremlin. "Ow!" I yelped, shaking it off as she stormed out. "Little monster!"
Evie's crazy about her hair—only Mom's allowed to touch it. Dad? Maybe once in a blue moon. Me? Never. I'd just sign my own death warrant.
The phone buzzed. I scrambled, opening the group chat.
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[Group Chat: The Eternal Benchwarmers]
┌─── Chat Log ───┐
9:03 AM | ~Max~
Oliver, if you're not ready by 10:30, you're getting ditched.
9:05 AM | =Ben=
Seconded. Bring crisps—Harry ate them all last time.
9:07 AM | $$ Harry
That was ONE TIME—
└─── End Log ───┘
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| 9:37 AM |
"Dammit," I groaned, jerking upright. I brushed my teeth like a maniac and took a crazy-fast shower, nearly wiping out over a stray hoodie as I yanked on jeans. Stumbling into the kitchen, I rubbed sleep from my crusty eyes. The smell of Mom's coffee hit like a divine intervention.
Mom stood by the counter, ready for work, dark circles under her eyes just as bad as mine. "You look like crap," I said, chugging coffee that could wake a zombie. She rubbed her temples, totally beat. "Your dad and I were up late sorting the shop's new stock." A tired smile slipped out as she slid me a plate of toast.
no wonder Dad was up crazy late, and Mom too, I thought, chomping on toast. "Mom," I said, crumbs flying, "just a heads-up, I might be going somewhere with Ben and the guys. Like a trip. Maybe. No plan yet." I took another gulp of that clutch coffee.
"I can't drop Evie to school for a few days," I mumbled. Mom didn't look up from packing her bag. "Fine, don't stress. I'll take her on my way to work." She paused, pinning me with The Look that could stop a truck. "But you better be careful. And don't let Max drive wherever you're headed."
I nearly choked on my toast. "No freakin' way! I'm not riding with Max at the wheel. Dude thinks speed limits are optional and roundabouts are a damn crisis."
Mom smirked. "Smart kid."
"Where's Evie, anyway?" I asked, munching toast.
"She went to Liz's place after you dragged yourself up," Mom said, raising a brow. "You could learn from her. She's up at 7 AM every day, helping her poor, overworked mom with chores."
I took a slow, dramatic sip of coffee. "I could do that... but my artistic genius brain needs sleep for optimal creativity." I sighed, slapping a hand over my heart. "Your son's a student at the NCA(National College of Arts), Mom. With merit."
Mom rolled her eyes so hard I thought they'd get stuck. "Oh, sure, my son's a big-shot artist," she said, deadpan, reaching over to mess up my bedhead. "Who still thinks the floor's a laundry basket."
"Because floors are the ultimate canvas!" I protested through a grin.
Packing her bag, Mom headed out, calling over her shoulder, "Just promise you won't end up in a ditch cause one of you geniuses mixed up the brake and gas again."
"Love you too!" I shouted back, already mentally packing my sketchbook for whatever disaster awaited.
I shoved the last bite of toast in my mouth and got up, scraping my plate into the bin with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been scolded about crumbs one too many times. The mug got a half-hearted rinse—good enough—before I turned to leave. Then it hit me. " SHIT. The crisps."
I checked my watch. 10:13 AM. A snorted laugh escaped me. "Like those idiots will be on time anyway."
Might as well swing by Dad. Our place was one of those classic London conversion shops on the ground floor, a living space stacked above it like a layer cake. The stairs groaned their usual complaints as I descended into The Carter's Vintage, its gold leaf lettering peeling just enough to look properly antique on Regent Street.
Outside through the windows, the familiar symphony of honking black cabs and overpriced tourist traps played on, a chaotic orchestra of urban life. Black cabs weaved through traffic, their horns blaring like impatient maestros, while street vendors hawked garish Union Jack mugs and overpriced fish-and-chips to wide-eyed tourists. The air buzzed with the chatter of selfie-stick-wielding crowds and the occasional shout of a cabbie cursing a wayward pedestrian, all underscored by the faint diesel hum of London's pulse. The shop smelled like a home of old paper.
Dad was behind the counter, doing his best impression of a serious antiquarian while some American tourist hemmed and hawed over what was clearly a fake Victorian snuff box.
I caught his eye and got The Look—the universal dad signal for "don't you dare interrupt this sale." Wandering past a particularly precarious stack of vintage Playboys (1972, mint condition, not that I'd checked), something glinted from the display case. A necklace—crescent moon pendant, the metal shifting between silver and something darker when the light hit it just right. "Well that's not sketchy at all."
"Oliver." Dad's voice snapped me out of my staring contest with the weird necklace. The tourists were gone, the register drawer open. "Shouldn't you be out terrorizing London's traffic laws by now?"
"Harry's driving," I said, nodding at the case. "What's the deal with that thing?" Dad followed my gaze. "Ah. That came in with a collection from some old duffer in Kent. Claims it was dug up near Avebury." He rolled his eyes. "Probably nicked from a goth kid, but the craftsmanship's decent. "I couldn't figure out the material, and the chain itself ain't rare—just silver.
I pressed a finger to the glass case. The pendent was it... vibrating?
Rumble...
The floor jolted under me, a low growl shaking the shop. "What the hell?" I muttered, grabbing the counter as the ground bucked again, harder. Earthquake? In London? My heart slammed against my ribs, pulse racing like I'd downed ten of Mom's coffees. Shelves wobbled, and a stack of old books crashed to the floor with a dusty thud. Glass trinkets rattled, then shattered, shards skittering across the wood like freaked-out bugs. The air got thick with the musty stink of old paper and splintered wood, mixed with the diesel bite from outside.
Outside, Regent Street went nuts. Black cabs screeched to a halt, horns blaring like a pissed-off choir. Tourists screamed, dropping selfie sticks, as a vendor's cart tipped, spilling Union Jack mugs across the street. The shop's gold-leaf sign swayed, creaking like it might tear loose. My knees shook, and I dove under the counter, heart pounding, as another tremor rattled the walls, sending a cracked vinyl record spinning past my head. Holy crap, is this the pendant's fault?
"Oliver!"
Everything warped, and suddenly I was back staring at the pendant, like nothing happened. Sweat dripped under my chin. I laughed, shaky. "A freaking dream?" I mumbled, rubbing my face. "When did it start?"
"Online games are gonna melt your brain, mate," Dad said, handing me a glass of water, his voice pure London. I smirked, gulping the water. Funny how I got Mom's American slang, all "crap" and "freakin'," while Evie's out here sounding like Dad, tossing around "git" and "mental" like a proper Brit.
"Take it if you want," he added, nodding at the pendant. At my raised eyebrow, he shrugged. "Payment for dealing with two needy women while I'm working."
My head was a freaking mess, all jumbled up. Like, if a hot girl came on to me out of nowhere, I'd swear she's a scammer—or maybe I'm just paranoid as hell. But, I mean, hot girl? Pros outweigh the cons, right? Shrugging, I took the chain from Dad, its silver pendant cool against my palm. What the hell, might as well.
I flipped the pendant over my fingers like a trapped secret, probably a weird day dream. "Oh, Mom tell you? I might bounce outta town for a few days. Tonight or tomorrow."
Dad leaned against the counter, cleaning his glasses with that slow, dramatic wipe he pulled when about to say something mega cringe. "Just don't forget to pack, y'know..." He mimed pulling something from his wallet, eyebrows waggling like a total numpty.
I stared, jaw dropping. "Condoms? Dad, I'm going with Ben, Max, and Harry. If I get lucky with those knuckleheads around, it'll be a damn miracle worthy of sainthood." I pulled a mopey face, sighing. "At this point, I'd bomb trying to charm a granny at bingo night."
Dad barked a laugh, then got all serious, like he was about to drop some BBC documentary wisdom. "You won't find mates like them twice, lad. However mental they drive you—literally or not—hold onto 'em."
A loud HONK HONK wrecked the moment. We both spun toward the window. Harry's beat-up Honda Civic idled at the curb, backfiring like a pissed-off mule. He leaned out, tossing Dad a salute so sharp it was basically taking the piss, then flashed me a grin that screamed pure chaos.
"Christ," Dad muttered, eyeing Harry's car. "That thing's held together by duct tape and daft optimism."
"Don't let Evie touch my art supplies," I warned, heading for the door, pendant buzzing in my pocket. "Last time she 'fixed' my painting, I had to redo a week's work. She's 17, Dad—she gotta act more mature. I'll probably be back by 4 PM."
Dad chuckled, scratching his neck like he was dodging a right bollocking. "No promises, lad. You know Evie's a nightmare when she's bored." He raised a brow, smirking like a proper git. "Maybe explain why you spiked her shampoo with hair dye, Mr. Mature, yeah? Or why you were always caught up in those turf rows and dodgy brawls at 15, giving me and your mum proper grief."
"That was ages ago!" I snapped, cheeks blazing red as it hit me how tight the age gap was between me and Evie. "I'm 21 now, totally mature." Cringing at how dumb that sounded, I muttered, "Uh, yeah, so... later," and bolted through the shop's creaky door, Harry's manic grin waiting outside.
The shop's door creaked open, its bell jingling faintly. The morning's chaos set the tone for whatever lay ahead. I rolled my eyes and stepped onto Regent Street, the sun blazing off the pavement. Harry's beat-up Honda Civic idled at the curb, its exhaust hacking like an asthmatic chain-smoker. I slid into the front passenger seat, chucking a bag of chips at Max in the back. "Why the hell didn't anyone call me to be ready by 10:30?" I grumbled, buckling up.
Harry glanced over, eyes narrowing. "Yo, dude, you're bleeding. Check your left arm—small cut." I yanked up my sleeve, spotting a thin red line. What the hell? My mind flashed to that freaky dream, Was it just a dream?. Shaking off the unease, I decided it was nothing. Probably just scraped it on some junk in Dad's shop. I shrugged, muttering, "Must've bumped into something."
Ben, sprawled in the back with his feet propped up, shot me a look of pure disbelief. "You really think you'd wake up to a call? Your alarm can't even drag you outta bed. If you hadn't shown by 11, we were gonna crash at your place till you stumbled out." Harry, gripping the wheel like it might bolt, caught Ben's eye in the rearview mirror. "Never give up without a shot, man." Ben snorted. "Don't preach that to me, Mr. Tinder Swindlers."
Harry cranked the music—an obnoxiously loud indie-rock anthem—drowning out further protests. I propped my face on my hand, arm hanging out the window.
One thing still bugged me, nagging like a glitch: Why the hell does Dad have condoms?
"So," Max yelled over the noise, ripping open the chips. "Where we going? It's 10:40—we've got till 2 before lunch. Can't just drive in circles."
I leaned back, thinking. "How about we hit that vintage arcade near Camden? They've got that old-school Street Fighter cabinet. Loser buys lunch." Ben perked up. "Only if we stop for coffee first. I need fuel if I'm gonna destroy you." Harry grinned, swerving into the next lane without signaling. "Done. But if we get another ticket, Oliver's paying." I groaned. "Pray for me." The music blared, the engine wheezed, and London blurred past us—another day of questionable decisions, just getting started.
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Hours later, the arcade's neon glow and lunch's aftermath fueled our plans. The remains of our lunch—crisp packets, half-eaten sandwiches, and Ben's mournfully empty wallet—littered the table as we finalized our plans. Max tapped his fingers against his phone screen, pulling up a map before declaring with all the gravitas of a general planning a siege: "Right, here's the master plan." "We're going to Wales for a few days—none of us have been, and it's about time we got cultured beyond kebabs at 2 AM. But since none of us have ever seen Stonehenge either—you know, just one of the Seven Wonders of the damn world—we're stopping there on the way."
He zoomed in on the route, tracing the path with his finger. "It's a five-hour drive total, but if we leave at 2 AM, we'll hit Stonehenge right at sunrise. Perfect lighting, minimal tourists, and—let's be honest—our best shot at not getting kicked out for being idiots." Harry nodded sagely. "Also, less traffic. And fewer witnesses if Max starts screaming about 'mystical energies' again." Ben groaned, rubbing his temples. "Why are we doing this to ourselves?" Max ignored him, already on the English Heritage website to book our Stonehenge tickets. "We need to pick a time slot for sunrise," he said, scrolling through options. "I'm paying online, Venmo me later."
The plan solidified with a few taps, our e-tickets secured for the journey ahead. The moment I walked through the door, Dad glanced up from his newspaper. "Trip's happening," I announced. "Wales via Stonehenge. Leaving at 2 AM." Mom arrived home an hour later, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion as she dropped her bag by the stairs. She collapsed onto the couch with a groan that spoke volumes about her day.
Mom's a financial manager, which is like herding cash in a pressure cooker—stress city, but it keeps the family afloat as the breadwinner. Years back, she met Dad on a business trip to London from Chicago. She was crunching numbers for some finance firm, sent to pitch cost-cutting plans to a UK client. Said it was the wildest week of her life—Dad, this quirky antique dealer, showed her dive bars and dragged her to a sketchy pub quiz in Soho. Ugh, barf. remembering the way, she said it, with her eyes all sparkly, it's too mushy for me.
I saw my chance and pounced. "Rough day, Mom?" I asked, sliding behind her and digging my thumbs into the knots between her shoulder blades. She melted into the touch with a groan that screamed brutal day. "Yeah, if one more exec demands a 'quick budget tweak' at 5 PM, I'm gonna lose it," she muttered, her financial manager stress practically oozing out. I worked the tension methodically, earning a low hum. "Mmm, thank God." Mom tilted her head, cracking her neck. "You're being weirdly nice, Oliver. Spill—what do you want?"
"Nothing!" I grinned, then caved. "Okay, fine. Keep Evie away from my art supplies. Last time she 'helped,' my watercolors looked like a unicorn barfed rainbow." Mom snorted, eyes glinting. "I'll hide the brushes, but if Mrs. Gupta offers big bucks for your sketchbooks at the next shop sale, no promises." "You wouldn't!" I yelped, clutching my chest. "Get some souvenirs on your Wales trip," she added, "especially for Evie—don't forget, next month—" The shop's creaky door jingled, cutting her off. "Mum, you home?" Evie's voice rang out, dripping with that British "git" vibe.
A wicked idea hit me, and I blurted to Mom, "I'm gonna get Evie back for that art supply massacre." She sighed, rubbing her temples like the financial manager stress was about to freakin' blow. "Why do you two always gotta brawl?"
Not minding Mom's comment, a smirk crept up my face. Oh, Evie, you're so not ready for tomorrow.
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Despite three missed calls, Mom had to shake me awake at 1:00 AM, her voice sharp from another brutal day. I stumbled through my morning prep for the Wales trip, half-dead but wired with mischief. Grabbing a charcoal stick from my art stash, I crept into Evie's room. With careful strokes, I painted an epic mustache and beard on her sleeping face, the absurd contrast with her delicate features nearly making me lose it. Take that, you British gremlin. I stifled a laugh, picturing her waking up looking like a pirate reject.
I double-checked the lock on my art stash, dead set on stopping another Evie disaster. No freaking way I'm letting that British gremlin fuck my supplies again. Last time, her "help" turned my watercolors into a mess so gnarly, it'd make Picasso cry with one glance.
Ben's sleek sedan rolled up at 1:58 AM sharp, a far cry from Harry's beat-up Civic. I stumbled into the backseat, where Max was already conked out, snoring like a chainsaw. Harry twisted from the passenger seat, smirking. "Told ya he'd need his mom to shake him awake." Ben adjusted the rearview mirror, eyes glinting. "Buckle up, Oliver. I drive like a normal person, so you'll probably hate it." The engine hummed to life—smooth, no backfires, no rattles. Kinda freaked me out.
The five-hour haul wove through the night's eerie quiet, a blur of half-assed singalongs and Max's unhinged rants about ley lines and alien architects. We snapped some pics despite the dark, catching a few dope shots of the starry sky. By the time we hit the deserted Stonehenge lot, the sun was creeping up, bathing the stones in a ghostly glow. Those ancient slabs loomed, silent and waiting, like they knew we were coming.
I'd dozed off, lulled by the engine's hum, when Harry jabbed me. "Yo, sleeping beauty, wakeup "I blinked, groggy, as Ben handed our e-tickets to a guard, who scanned the QR codes with a handheld gizmo and waved us through. Max's obsession with timing got us there fifteen minutes early for our sunrise slot. Letting out a yawn, this'd make a killer painting, I thought, sketching the stones in my head.
"Well, here we are," Harry muttered, killing the engine with a groan that matched his stiff joints after the cramped ride. We piled out, the crisp dawn air biting as we trudged the path around the stones, their shadows sharp against the rising sun. The visitor center's exhibits loomed nearby.
"Can't believe we drove all this way for a bunch of rocks," Ben grumbled, fishing out his phone, its blue glow carving ghoul-like shadows under his sleep-deprived eyes.
"Oh, come on," Max said, slinging an arm around Ben's shoulders. "Once-in-a-lifetime vibe! Snap your tourist pics so we can—"
"Hit a pub?" Harry cut in, smirking.
"Document the mystical energies," Max corrected, waving a battered compass that spun like it was possessed.
Their bickering faded as they trudged toward the monument, voices swallowed by the vast, pre-dawn dark. I hung back, scanning the stones for art inspo, my sketchbook itching in my bag. The pendant at my throat hummed, sharp like a plucked guitar string, tugging my focus.
Strange symbols—scratched, jagged lines—flickered on the nearest pillar, catching the faint sunrise glow. The air shifted, not wind but a warm, eerie breath, whispering through the stone gaps. Come closer.
I took a step. Then another. Frost crackled under my sneakers, weird for June. The whisper curled around me, sweet as poisoned honey, pulling me in. My fingers brushed the monolith—
The sky detonated. Thick smog swallowed the morning, choking dawn into midnight's grip. Black clouds churned, heavy as molten lead, spitting lightning. Each bolt seared brighter, louder, splitting the air with a boom that rattled my bones. At first, a strike every few seconds—then faster, one per second, then two, three, a relentless strobe shredding my vision. My ears screamed, a piercing whine slicing my skull, needles stabbing my eardrums with every flash. Winds roared, clawing my jacket.My thoughts spun, a frantic mess—What the hell's happening? Am I freaking losing it?
A sudden force slammed me, hurling me through the air to the center of the circle of ancient stones, my body skidding across frost-crisp grass. The pendant yanked against my neck, floating, its silver chain taut. It shattered into white dust, particles surging into my chest like I was nothing, no resistance, just gone. The pillars pulsed, glowing with golden runes—jagged scribbles like ancient code—then darkened, swallowed by an oily black sheen oozing up the stones.
Pain erupted, a merciless inferno shredding my soul. It was as if my nerves wwere being torn from my body, every fiber ripped apart, flayed raw from bone to skin in a relentless, shrieking torment. My mind clawed at sanity, fracturing into jagged shards of madness—I'm breaking, I'm dying, make it stop! My vision whited out, my mouth locked in a soundless scream, spit dripping as I thrashed, a puppet with cut strings. I was nothing but agony, thoughts dissolving into a howling void.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS—
I collapsed, the world erased.
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My eyes snapped open. I wasn't staring at a ceiling - it was a bed canopy, swaying slightly above me. My senses slowly returned. For a second I thought I was in a hospital, but no - this bed was too grand, too ornate. The posts were carved dark wood, the sheets impossibly soft. This looked expensive, like something royal or noble.
What's happening? Where am I?
The pain from before still lingered, like my nerves were stitching themselves back together. A burning feeling spread from my chest, sharp and hot, like wires twisting under my skin. I gasped, memories rushing back all at once.
"Argh! Help! Ben! Max!"
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"Anna!"
My voice cracked, raw, my throat burning like I'd swallowed glass. Who's Anna? The names tore out, unbidden. I blinked against the agony, struggling to keep my eyes open as the pain faded, leaving a fog of confusion. I gasped, memories rushing back all at once.
Memories.
But—
These weren't mine.