The alley reeked of damp concrete and trash, but all Ethan could smell was jet fuel. The phantom stench clung to his lungs, choking him more than the night air ever could. His legs buckled beneath him like broken scaffolding, and he stumbled against the wall, sliding down until he hit the ground with a dull thud that echoed through his bones.
His chest seized. He dragged in a breath, but it came out jagged, useless—like trying to breathe through a collapsed straw. His vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in like spilled ink.
This isn't real. It can't be real.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blot out the memory of the fireball that had devoured his father's helicopter. But the image burned brighter behind his eyelids—orange and white light consuming metal and flesh in a split second that felt like eternity. David Osborne's face, calm and commanding even at the end, disappearing in a blossom of flame that painted the night sky in the color of final things.
"No," Ethan whispered, shaking his head violently. His voice cracked like breaking glass. "No, no, no, no—"
The panic crushed him like a vice made of lead and terror. He clutched at his blazer, tugging the fabric as though he could rip free of his own skin, escape his own body, become someone else—someone who hadn't watched his father die in real time. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought it might shatter bone.
Can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't—
His fingernails dug into his palms until they drew blood. The taste of copper filled his mouth—when had he bitten his tongue? Everything felt disconnected, like his body was a machine running without an operator. The world tilted sideways, and for a terrifying moment he thought he might be dying too.
Good. Maybe that would be easier.
And then—
"Breathe."
The voice wasn't his. It was deep, clipped, controlled—cutting through the panic like a blade through silk.
Ethan's eyes flew open. "Who's there?!" His voice came out as a rasp, barely human.
"Count. Inhale four. Hold. Exhale six. Do it, boy, or you're dead before they even reach you."
Terror spiked hotter than the grief. Ethan twisted around, scanning the shadows of the alley with wild eyes, but no one was there. Only the dumpsters, the dripping pipe, the orange wash of a distant streetlamp. The voice had come from inside his head—inside his skull, like someone else was sitting behind his eyes.
"You're not real," he hissed, pressing his palms against his temples. His fingernails dug into his scalp. "I'm losing it. I've finally lost it."
"No. You're adapting. The panic is a luxury you can't afford. Now breathe."
And despite the horror crawling up his spine, Ethan obeyed. He dragged in air—one, two, three, four—held it until his lungs burned, then released it slowly through pursed lips. The tremors in his hands dulled slightly, though his heart still hammered against his ribs like a caged animal.
It's working. Why is it working?
"What the hell are you?" he rasped.
"Later. For now, move."
Bootsteps echoed at the alley's mouth—deliberate, measured, professional. Two figures in tactical gear slid into view like death made manifest, rifles raised, movements precise as clockwork. Their faces were hidden behind masks, but their intent was clear as broken glass: clean-up.
Ethan froze, panic rushing back like a tidal wave, locking his limbs. He was just a seventeen-year-old boy cornered between steel and stone, and they were soldiers with weapons designed to erase problems like him from existence.
This is it. This is how I die.
"Left. Now."
His body lurched sideways before his mind could process the command. Bullets chewed into the brick where he'd been sitting, sending chips of masonry flying like shrapnel. A broken bottle glinted at his feet, its jagged edge catching the streetlight like a shard of green ice.
"Pick it up."
"No—I can't—I'm not—"
"Pick. It. Up."
His hand closed around the glass without permission, fingers wrapping around the bottle's neck while his brain screamed in protest. The first attacker lunged forward with professional efficiency, but the voice was already guiding Ethan's movements.
"Thrust upward. Under the vest. Aim for the femoral artery."
Ethan's body twisted—awkward, clumsy, but guided by something that understood anatomy and violence in ways his prep school education never covered. The shard drove deep into the man's thigh, finding the gap in his tactical gear with surgical precision. Hot blood sprayed across Ethan's wrist as a scream tore through the alley.
The second soldier swung his rifle butt at Ethan's skull, a killing blow delivered with military efficiency.
"Duck. Roll right. Come up behind his knee."
Ethan dropped instinctively, the swing whistling over his head with enough force to cave in bone. His free hand lashed out on its own, shoving the glass into the attacker's gut while his mind watched in horrified fascination. The blade punched through Kevlar and flesh with a wet sound that would haunt his dreams forever.
The man collapsed with a gurgle, weapon clattering on the pavement like discarded toys.
Ethan staggered back, staring at the blood smeared across his hands—dark and sticky in the amber light. His breath came in frantic gasps that misted in the cool air. "Oh God. I—I killed him. I killed them both."
The bodies lay twisted at impossible angles, their masks askew to reveal young faces that would never age another day. Boys, really. Maybe not much older than him. Someone's sons, someone's brothers—
"No. I did." The voice was calm, merciless, carrying the weight of someone who'd made such calculations countless times before. "You just held the knife."
Ethan shook his head violently, stumbling away from the carnage. The glass slipped from his trembling fingers, shattering against concrete with a sound like breaking stars. "This isn't me. This isn't me!"
But even as he denied it, he could feel something shifting inside his skull—synapses firing in patterns that didn't belong to him, muscle memory awakening from some deep, dark place. His hands knew how to kill now. His body understood violence in ways that terrified and exhilarated him.
What's happening to me?
The alley tilted sideways as exhaustion crashed over him like a tsunami. His vision narrowed into a black tunnel, and the last coherent thought he had before darkness swallowed him was that the broken bodies at his feet were proof this was no nightmare.
He was changing into something else.
Something dangerous.