Chapter 0.5
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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 are 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 was solidified with a few taps, and our e-tickets were secured for the journey ahead.
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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 sing-alongs 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, wake up. "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 were 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 from 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.