Chapter 7: The Promise
The rain came hard that night, hammering the shelter roof like a drum. Styles lay on his bunk, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. His new reflection stared back at him from the cracked mirror on the wall—skin darker now, smooth and rich like melted chocolate, hair twisted into long black locs that brushed his shoulders. His eyes gleamed sharper than ever.
The change had made him magnetic. Every hallway stare, every whispered giggle, every woman biting her lip when he passed—it all confirmed what he already knew: he looked untouchable.
But tonight, he didn't feel untouchable.
Tonight, the storm brought memories.
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Scene 1: His Mother's Smile
Before the infection, before the academy, before the hunger for levels and prestige, there was her.
His mother's laugh. The smell of coffee in their tiny apartment. The way she worked herself raw to keep food on the table, even when the world gave her nothing back.
She'd been everything—friend, parent, protector. And then the cancer came. Fast. Ruthless.
He remembered sitting by her hospital bed, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. She looked so small then, skin pale, breath weak. But her smile never broke.
"Don't let this city eat you, baby," she whispered. "Promise me you'll be more than it wants you to be."
He tried to joke, because that was all he knew. "What, like a superhero? You want me in tights?"
She laughed, weak but real. "Not tights. Just… something good. Something bigger. Join them—the supernatural police. Protect people. Promise me."
His throat burned as he forced the words out. "I promise, Ma."
She closed her eyes after that. She didn't open them again.
That promise was the only reason he was still breathing.
⸻
Scene 2: The Mission Call
The academy alarms yanked him from the memory.
Mission Code: 0233.
Threat: Rift Disturbance + Human Cult Activity.
Location: Harlem church.
Reward: 18,000 EXP.
Marisol groaned. "A church? This city has no shame."
Styles slipped his hood up, cigarette glowing. "Guess God needs pest control."
The squad geared up, moving into the rain-soaked streets. Styles' grin was back, covering the ache inside. Jokes were easier than grief.
⸻
Scene 3: Harlem Church
The church loomed against the storm, its windows glowing faint red. Chants echoed inside—low, guttural voices not meant for human throats.
The squad breached the doors. Inside, robed cultists knelt before a pulsing Rift carved into the altar. Black energy spilled from it, warping the wooden floor, bending the light.
One cultist turned, eyes glowing. His marker hovered at Level 25.
"Defilers," he hissed. "You'll bleed for the Rift."
The cultists charged.
⸻
Scene 4: The Encounter
Gunfire erupted. Rookies shouted, their weapons blazing. Cultists screamed, charging with knives etched in glowing runes.
Styles moved through the chaos like water. His new agility made every dodge effortless. His fists cracked ribs, his kicks sent bodies spinning into pews. To the others, it looked like the cultists tripped, fainted, collapsed under their own weight.
But the Rift wasn't done.
It pulsed violently, tearing wider. From it crawled a figure cloaked in smoke, taller than any man, eyes burning white. Its marker flickered: Level 70.
The rookies froze. "We can't fight that!"
Styles stepped forward, cigarette in his mouth. "Good thing I'm not 'we.'"
The entity lunged. Styles ducked, weaving between its claws. His fist slammed into its gut, smoke exploding. It roared, swiping again, but his speed carried him behind it. One strike to the back of the head, and the thing collapsed, twitching as the Rift sealed shut.
The rookies gasped. Marisol stared, trembling. That wasn't luck. That was precision.
Styles lit another cigarette, exhaling smoke over the fallen cultists. "Guess church is canceled."
Scene 5: The Level-Up
Above the squad's heads:
+18,000 EXP.
They cheered weakly, hugging each other in relief.
But in Styles' vision:
+36,000 EXP.
Level Up → 175.
The infection buzzed under his skin, his locs swaying as if alive, his muscles thrumming with power. His speed sharpened again. His grin widened.
⸻
Scene 6: Secrets and Women
Back at the academy, the whispers turned darker.
"His skin changed. His hair too."
"That's not normal leveling."
"He's not like us."
Styles didn't care. He was too busy in the communications wing, pinning a model trainee against the wall while her boyfriend patrolled two floors down. She melted under his touch, moaning softly as he whispered filth in her ear.
Afterward, she fixed her uniform, cheeks flushed. "You're… dangerous."
He lit a cigarette, grinning. "That's the fun part."
⸻
Scene 7: Marisol's Suspicion
Marisol cornered him outside the cafeteria later, rain still dripping from her hair. "I know you're hiding something," she hissed. "Your body—it's changing. Your skin, your hair. That's not how leveling works."
Styles leaned close, smoke curling between them. "Maybe I'm just prettier than the rest of you."
Her jaw clenched. "This isn't a joke. If you're infected—"
"Then kiss me before I turn into a monster," he interrupted, smirking.
Her face flushed red. She shoved him hard and stormed off. Styles laughed, smoke trailing after him.
⸻
Scene 8: Nightfall
Back at the shelter, Styles sat on his bunk, rain pounding the roof. His skin gleamed dark chocolate under the dim light, his long locs brushing against his shoulders. His body felt sharper than ever.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he saw her again. His mother's smile. Her voice.
Promise me…
He clenched his fists until the bunk frame bent, tears threatening at the edges of his grin.
"I promised, Ma. I'm here. I'll take this whole city apart, protect it, and laugh while I do it. You'll see."
Smoke curled upward as his laughter echoed through the empty room.
Level 175.
Prestige still waiting.
Tomorrow, there would be another mission. Another woman. Another secret.
But tonight, there was just him—and the promise that kept him alive.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]