Chapter 1, let it begin
At the beginning — and yeah, I know how it sounds — the universe was born.
And with it came God… but not the one in your bedtime stories.
Not the bearded sky-father with thunder in his pockets.
God was the universe's imaginary friend.
Born in the same breath, bound to it like reflection to water.
We don't know if they set the rules together or if the rules just happened while they were busy making stars.
What we do know is this: every one point generates two souls.
A tether in the dark.
A chain that binds us until we're free.
One walks the real, the other walks the imagined.
Some call us guardian angels.
Others just call us imaginary friends.
We're the shadows in your darkest hours, your only light in a world gone cold.
For ages, we were the cleanup crew — sweeping nightmares, scrubbing curses, keeping the sludge of hate from spilling over.
But the dark learns to crawl. It learns to push back.
And some of us… we learn to push harder.
My world cracked open about a year ago.
Jamie — the girl I was tethered to — was killed.
The rage that followed wasn't supposed to be mine.
Imaginary friends feel joy, warmth, maybe a touch of sadness when the bond breaks.
But fury?
Fury belongs to the living.
When they took her, I tore through the veil.
Normally, we live in the Imagination — a realm of whispers and shadows.
Some call it heaven, others hell.
We just call it Tuesday.
Two sides of a cruel cosmic waltz, separated by laws neither side bothers to explain.
I remember the rain that day.
Jamie was home, trapped in the slow suffocation of a broken family.
Her mom drowning in bottles, her dad a ghost in every way that counted.
Then the van came.
No faces, just a yawning dark mouth swallowing her whole.
I tried to be her light, but the dark was faster.
What happened after?
That's mine.
My secret.
My fuel.
I crossed over.
Ripped through the plastic-thin skin between worlds.
Now, I'm not imaginary anymore.
And I'm coming for them.
Cold. That's the first thing I felt. Cold, and a tingle that ran down my arms like somebody stuck me in a meat locker with live wires on the walls. Then the smell hit me — sour, rank, thick. The kind of stink that clings to your coat. New York, they call it. To me, it smelled like somebody farted in a cathedral and forgot to air the place out.
And yet… I could feel it. A heartbeat in my chest. The thump-thump was mine, not borrowed from the leash that tied me to Jamie. First time I ever felt that. First time I ever felt anything like that. Strange thing is, I think I got a boner, too. Guess rage and resurrection'll do that to a guy.
I straightened my coat, pulled the brim of my fedora down. People walked past, neon lights bleeding into rain puddles, horns screaming in the distance. They all gave me the same look — like I was the sore thumb in their picture.
That's when she stopped. Purple hair, boots up to her knees, big grin like she just spotted a circus act.
"Oh my god, that cosplay is amazing," she said.
I blinked. "I don't know what the… fuck… you're talkin' about, broad."
That was the first time I'd ever said it. Fuck. The word snapped out of me like a whip, raw and filthy, and it felt good. Like something had cracked loose inside me. The leash was gone. No chains, no rules. Just me.
She gasped, then laughed. "Oh my god, you roleplay too! This is hilarious."
"Fuck," I muttered. Then again, louder: "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Each one tasted better than the last, like swigs of whiskey after a lifetime of water.
She clapped her hands, thrilled. "You're so committed!"
I walked away, my cigarette trailing white smoke behind me. My first night in the real world, and already I'd learned two things:
One — it smelled like farts.
Two — I could say fuck.
And pal, that changed everything.
This city smelled like hot trash, cheap perfume, and bad decisions. My kind of place… if I'd ever been anywhere like it before.
I started down the cracked sidewalk, mind on the warehouse a few blocks over, when a yellow hunk of metal came screaming past. Horn blaring. Tires squealing.
It damn near clipped me.
I slammed a hand down on the back end as it passed — not hard, just enough to say "I see you, pal." The metal caved like wet cardboard. Big, perfect handprint right across the trunk.
The cab squealed to a stop. Out hops a wiry little guy with a hat that looked like it lost a fight with a pigeon. He sees the dent and his face goes sour.
"What the hell'd you do to my cab?! You know what that's gonna cost me?!"
I turned, slow. Let him get a good look at me. The trench coat. The hat. The shadows already curling around my boots like loyal dogs.
"Listen, friend," I said, stepping close enough for him to smell the veil-stink still clinging to me. "Get back in your car. Drive away. Or I'll do to your head what I did to your trunk."
His eyes flicked down. Saw the crater my hand left. Swallowed hard.
"Y-yeah. Sure, buddy." He scrambled back in, peeled off like the road was on fire.
I kept walking. The city didn't care. Cars still hissed by in the wet. Somewhere a steam vent screamed. I slid into an alley, let the shadows take me the rest of the way to the warehouse.
The door hung crooked. Inside — just dust, silence, and the ghost of where she'd been. The scent hit me first. Not rot. Not yet. Just… gone.
I leaned down over her body, She's small, frail. Tears still wet around her eyes. My heart broke. That's all I can say. It was heartbreaking to see her like that. Someone who once smiled. Clinging to life, even though she had it in the trash can, you know. Just, damn. Rest easy, "little girl," I said, as the her body slipped into shadows. We'll have our revenge.
My gut pulled me left, down the street. Three turns and a walk later, I was standing in front of a tired old house with peeling paint and curtains pulled tight.
Her mother lived here.
And she was about to get a knock from someone who wasn't supposed to exist.
The house smelled like old liquor and regret. Paint peeling, floorboards groaning. I stepped inside. Shadows swallowed me, thick as a nun's undergarments. My nose itched deep down in my gut. I knew this broad. I just knew.
She was slouched in a chair, eyes darting like a trapped rat. Hair greasy, skin pale.
"Who the fuck are you?" she spat, voice sharp enough to slice through the darkness.
"No, mister, you gotta get out of my goddamn house or I'm gonna shoot," she said.
I stayed in the shadows, cigarette smoke curling like a ghost's whisper. "Shut up, bitch. Thats my line."
"Leave or I'm gonna call the cops. I mean it," The broad say.
"Listen here, broad," I said, voice low, steady. "I need you to understand something first. Your little girl… she's dead."
Her eyes widened. "What… what do you mean?"
"I was there," I said, letting the words hit like a hammer. "I watched her die."
She recoiled, then sneered. "They wasn't supposed to kill her! They were only supposed to have a little fun with her, bring her back!"
That was it. That fucking lit the fuse. My blood boiled, but my coat stayed black as the shadows around me. My cigarette curled in the dim air, a whisper of smoke.
I stepped out, just enough for her to see me. Black trench coat, white outlines glowing faintly in the dark. A real-life cartoon come to life, yet something far worse.
"What the fuck are you?" she gasped.
I leaned in, voice low, carrying the weight of everything imaginary and real. "I'm your little girl's reckoning."
Her eyes went wide. She finally understood, or at least realized the shadow had teeth. And I was only getting started.
The shadows started moving before I even spoke. She froze, eyes wide, hands twitching. I could feel her confusion, the tiny tremor in her gut. Then the walls themselves seemed alive. Dark ropes wrapped around her wrists, coiled around her ankles, snaking up to her neck. They weren't real, but they looked real—my power painting terror in smoke and shadow.
"You think you can sell her and walk free?" I said, voice low, guttural, carried on the edge of the dark.
Her eyes darted around. "W-what… what is this?"
"I seen what they did to her," I said, letting the shadow tighten just a fraction. "There was nothing I could do… but now? Now there is."
I stepped closer, and the shadows pulsed with my anger. My trench coat absorbed the dim light, white outlines cutting through darkness like paper. "I'm Noirion," I said, letting the name echo through the room like a curse.
Recognition hit her like a fist. "J-Jamie… she… she used to talk about you… all the time…" Her voice trembled. "You're… you're only imaginary…"
"Imaginary?" I spat the word, letting the shadows around her writhe and stretch. "Imaginary my ass."
The ropes started tightening, lifting her off the ground in an impossible, silent pull. Her screams erupted, loud and shrill at first, then quickly swallowed, turning into gargled, muted noises as the shadows danced over her. I kept my eyes on her, steady.
"I watched her die," I said slowly, letting the weight of it crush the air around us. "Slowly… being pulled apart… for the very evil that you let be."
Her legs kicked, fists swung, but the shadows held firm. Panic choked her voice. Every breath was a struggle, but she remembered Jamie. That tiny thread of connection, the voice of the girl she had stolen from the world.
"You… you were her friend… always…" she croaked, tears streaking her pale cheeks.
I didn't blink. I didn't hesitate. Shadows stretched and twisted, waiting to pull her completely apart if I didn't will them to stop. But I held back, just enough to make the lesson painful, unforgettable.
I let her dangle, shadows coiling tight enough to remind her she wasn't in control. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, the muted gurgle of terror filling the room. I leaned closer, letting the white outlines of my trench coat cut through the darkness like a blade.
"Start talking," I said, voice low, cold. "Every little lie, I know."
"I-I don't know who they were!" she spat, shaking her head. "I just owed money! Greg… he usually stays at the Three Stallions Saloon. That's where I met him. Drugs, debt… I had to eat, you know!"
My nose itched, deep, the gut-punch of my instincts kicking in. Lying, bitch.
"You're lying," I said, voice hard. The shadows pulsed, stretching. Her fingers strained against the ropes, her feet kicking. "Every word you tell me? I can smell the truth slipping around it. You owe more than that. You know it."
The shadows tightened just a hair more, whispering over her skin, tracing her form. The faint outlines wrapped around her like ink in water, lifting her higher. Her eyes went wide, panic spiking.
"You're lying," I repeated, dragging the words slowly, savoring the moment where denial meets reality. "And every little piece you hide? I will take it from you."
I let a section of shadow peel, thin and fast, like a hand sliding off a wall, just enough to tear a fingernail, a bit of flesh, a reminder she couldn't escape. Her scream cut sharp, then choked off into a gurgle as the shadows wove closer.
"I was there," I murmured, letting it sink deep. "I watched what you did to her. Every little compromise you made… every choice you swore wouldn't matter… it all does."
Her lips trembled. "I… I didn't mean… I—"
"Shut up." My words were whip-thin, slicing the air. I didn't need her to speak. The shadows spoke for me, pulling, tugging, enforcing the truth she refused to tell. I could feel the end coming. My gut tightened, not with doubt, but inevitability.
When I was done, there was no scream. No denial. Only silence, heavy as midnight. I let her drop to the floor, shadows retracting, leaving her still, broken, knowing her debt to justice had finally been paid.
I exhaled, smoke curling around me, ghostlike, as I stepped back into the dark. Noirian eyes scanned the room. Case closed. Lesson learned.
The house smelled like rot and cheap perfume. A bad combination, and worse when you've just finished cleaning up the mess that made it. I wandered through her kitchen, past the chipped counters and half-empty liquor bottles, muttering to myself.
"Where the hell's the phone book…?"
Not that I expected to actually find one — nobody under fifty seemed to keep those relics anymore. But my brain was still wired for it. Something you could flip through, dog-ear the page, maybe leave a greasy fingerprint or two.
Drawers opened, drawers slammed. Nothing but dull forks and expired menus. I checked under a stack of unpaid bills — still nothing. That's when my eyes landed on her phone. Black, glass-faced, smug little rectangle sitting on the counter like it knew I'd have to use it.
I picked it up like it might bite me. The screen lit up, showing a tiny padlock and some faint numbers.
"…the hell is this?"
I tapped it. Numbers blinked back. Too many. Four? Six? I could guess all night. But my gut — the same one that told me when people lied — just knew. I punched in 0423. Click. Unlocked.
I stared at the glowing icons, tilting my head like a dog hearing a strange noise.
"Alright… where's your phone book in this thing?"
I swiped too hard, sent the screen spinning past rows of tiny, colorful boxes. Hit something by accident and suddenly there was a camera staring at me. I turned it over, half-expecting to find some little man inside painting my picture. Swiped again. More icons. A clock. A weather report for a city I didn't care about.
"Jesus Christ, how do you people live like this?"
Finally found a search bar. Typed with one finger — Three Stallions. Got back a mess of results. But there it was: "Three Stallion Bar — 0.9 miles." Eight blocks. Walking distance.
I stared at the tiny map, watching the blue dot blink. Felt like the thing was mocking me. Still, I memorized the turns.
The phone went in my coat pocket, its faint warmth tapping against my ribs like a heartbeat that wasn't mine. I glanced around the apartment one last time. Every room had the stink of a life lived badly. Every corner whispered excuses I didn't care to hear.
Eight blocks. Enough time to think about how I was going to tear the truth out of Greg when I found him.
I stepped into Jamie's room. It smelled faintly of crayons, old paper, and something sweet she'd spilled weeks ago. My eyes went straight to the dresser, where a photo of her sat crooked in a cheap frame. I picked it up. Tiny hands, bright eyes, that impossible grin. My stomach tightened.
Then I noticed the drawing she had pinned to the wall — two figures, one small, one taller. Me. In that cartoonish outline only she could see, just like our world mirrored hers. Only I could see her in my world. No one else. And in the real, she could see me — the only one — even as she moved among the rest of the world.
I remembered that day. She'd handed me the drawing, giggling. I'd pulled out my little .38 snub-nosed special, the cold metal pressed into my hand, and stood just like a hero in one of those old comics she loved. "May be little," I had said, "but it's cold right now."
Cold. Always cold in her imaginary world.
I set the picture down, tucked the drawing under my coat, and headed for the door. The steps down were cracked and damp. The night air hit me like a slap — real, sharp, tingling against my skin. My coat flapped as I walked into the street.
Something itched on my nose. I raised my hand and touched it. Red. Blood. My eyes widened.
"What the fuck…"
I staggered, unsteady, the city lights bleeding into my vision. A narrow alley yawned open, and I stumbled toward it, slamming into overflowing trash cans, their stench mixing with the night. My knees hit the wet pavement. The world tilted.
I curled against the cold brick wall. The city hummed around me, but my ears heard nothing. My eyes blinked. My head spun. And then… darkness took me.
I woke up slowly, brick pressing into my back, the stench of the alley in my nose. Everything felt heavier here. The leash… gone. The tingle from the veil… gone. My heart beat in a way I hadn't felt before, a strange rhythm that wasn't mine entirely. I touched my nose — blood. Red and sticky.
"Hey… you okay?"
I looked up. A little girl, dirt-smudged, hair tangled, crouched by a pile of trash.
"You… look funny," she said, tilting her head. "Is it pain?"
Before I could answer, she looked past me, talking to someone I couldn't see? Her voice softened.
"Smuggles… why does he look so weird? Do you know?"
A tattered teddy bear shuffled into view, ragged and patched. Its button eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Ho ho! He's like me, April," the bear said, voice creaking like old wood. "Imaginary, see? he's Not real."
I blinked. Of course. The veil had thinned for me, but for her… she still had her own imaginary friend.
Smuggles turned those button eyes on me. "What are you doing on that side? You're not allowed!"
"Fuck you, Smuggles," I muttered, touching the blood on my nose again. "Right now, I've got bigger problems."
He tilted his head. "Don't you know? If you pass through, that's it. Your end. Maybe a year. Maybe two, if you're lucky."
I ground my teeth. "God damn you, Smuggles. Why'd you have to break such bad news to me?"
The girl shifted awkwardly, holding out half a bologna sandwich on a crusty paper plate. "You… want this?"
I shook my head, glancing at the rot creeping along the edges. "I don't need that. You keep it. It's… got rot anyway."
Smuggles snorted. "Ha! Not exactly a welcome-to-the-real-world gift, huh?"
I stared at him, shadows flickering under my trench coat. "Listen, you little stuffed brat. I don't have time for games. I needs to get revenge for my Jamie."
April's eyes widened. "Jamie…?"
"Yeah, kid," I muttered. "My Jamie, My human someone killed her And whoever did it… they're gonna pay."
The girl said nothing, just nodded, offering me the sandwich again with a tentative little smile. I shook my head once more, then got to my feet, brushing off the grime.
"You're not built for this side," Smuggles said.
"Maybe not," I said, "but I've got to finish what I started."
The alley smelling like wet cardboard and something dead weeks past its prime. April sat cross-legged on a milk crate, swinging her dirty sneakers, humming to herself like the stink didn't bother her. Smuggles leaned against the wall beside her — a teddy bear that had been through a war and lost, stuffing showing in seams like half-healed scars. His glassy button eyes followed every move.
I looked at April again. Seven, maybe eight, if life hadn't already stolen a few years from her. Her arms, bare under the frayed sleeves of a hoodie, were a patchwork of old and fresh bruises. A ring of purple bloomed around her right eye. It made something hot start boiling in my chest.
"Alright, April." I Had to ask, "Why are you covered in bruises? And why the hell are you in this alley, sitting with garbage, instead of… anywhere else?"
April dropped her gaze to the cracked pavement, kicked at nothing. "My daddy. He's… he's mean. He hurts me. Hurts Mommy too. So sometimes I run away. Hide here." She shrugged, like it was just weather. "He doesn't look for me when I hide good."
My jaw tightened. I knew the real world was brutal, but looking at her, I understood why God invented imaginary friends — little lifeboats for the kids drowning in it.
"How far away's your place?" I asked.
"I don't know… three minutes?"
I stood there, dirty, ignoring the dizziness, brushing alley grit off my coat. "Alright. Let's go."
Her eyes got wide. "Why?"
"I'm gonna kick your daddy's teeth in," I said flat. "Bruise him up the way he likes to bruise you."
April's mouth twitched, then spread into a grin so wide it almost looked wrong on a face so young. "Really?"
"Really." i Said.
Smuggles straightened, ragged ears twitching. "Now, now, no need for violence," the bear said, voice all false wisdom and lint. "This could be handled—"
I cut him off without even looking. "Smuggles, go fuck yourself. To me? Violence solves everything."
April giggled behind her hand like she'd just heard the best joke in the world.
"Come on, April." I motioned toward the alley mouth. "We've got some redecorating to do on your old man's face."
We started walking toward her place.
I glanced at Smuggles, still floating beside me like he was on an invisible string, spinning slow and lazy.
"How the hell do you know all this about… a year or two?" I asked.
Smuggles didn't miss a beat.
"Didn't you ever read your handbook?"
"Handbook?" I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
He reached into his torn cotton chest and pulled out the smallest damn book I'd ever seen. The cover looked like it was made from something old and worn—like a patch from a childhood blanket—and the pages weren't printed, they were sewn into the paper, the words threaded in with black string.
"Right there," he said, holding it out like it was the answer to everything.
I stared. "Why didn't I get one?"
"You do," he said. "You just don't know what you're looking for. Find it, and you'll have it."
"Fine," I muttered. "Fuck it." I reached into the inside pocket of my old trench coat, feeling around the lint and loose cigarette butts… and there it was. Like it had been hiding from me all this time.
I pulled it out. Black and white, like me, like it was holding something that wasn't words.
"What the hell, Smuggles? Why've I never seen this before? I didn't even know I had it."
"Maybe you weren't looking for it," he said. His button eyes didn't blink.
We walked. It started to rain—just a thin drizzle at first, making the street lamps halo out in the mist. The cold slipped through my coat, and I shoved my free hand deeper into the pocket, but April… she didn't even shiver. She didn't even seem to notice the weather, like she was made of something harder than the rest of us.
Her bruises looked darker in the streetlight. The black eye had gone from purple to that ugly yellow edge, but it was still there, like a badge.
She kept her chin up, though. She was stronger than she looked—a lot stronger. I'd met grown men who couldn't carry that kind of weight without breaking.
Smuggles drifted behind her, humming some tune I didn't recognize. I kept my eyes on the little house growing closer at the end of the street, its porch light flickering in the rain.
We stopped in front of it.
The place looked tired. Paint peeling off the siding, one shutter hanging by a single rusted hinge. Somewhere inside, a TV murmured low and distant.
"Well," I said, "home sweet home."
April just stood there, hands in her pockets, staring at the door.
As we hit the last couple steps, the air got thick.
Not just a whiff of booze — this was a fog of it. The kind of stink that clings to the walls, soaks into the curtains, and never leaves, even if you burn the place down.
Most bars don't smell this strong. Hell, most alleyway drunks don't smell this strong.
April's hand was trembling as she slid the key into the lock. The door creaked like it didn't want to open. She eased it forward, like she thought she could sneak past the stench, sneak past whatever was waiting on the other side.
I put a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't worry about it, darling," I told her. "Ain't no one gonna hurt you while I'm standing here."
We stepped in. The living room was a graveyard for good taste — yellowed wallpaper, sagging couch that had probably seen more fights than the local boxing gym. Over in the corner was a pile of shit — cat, dog, maybe both — stacked up like a sad little monument to neglect. The smell was its own living thing, breathing in the dark corners.
The kitchen was worse.
On the linoleum, sprawled out like someone dropped her there and forgot, was a woman.
Blood at the corner of her mouth. Bruises that had settled in for the long haul. Cheekbone swelling like it was trying to push through the skin.
April made a sound — something between a scream and a sob — and ran to her. "Momma! Momma, are you okay?"
Smuggles stood there, cotton tears welling up and dripping down his stitched cheeks. He shuffled closer, voice soft. "I wish I could help," he said, hugging her in that way only something not-quite-real can.
Then I heard the voice.
A short, sharp bark from the hallway.
This short, fat man waddled into view — wife beater stretched over his gut, saggy basketball shorts, socks like they'd been worn for a week straight. He had that boiled-ham skin tone drunks get, and eyes that looked like they'd been pickled in liquor.
"Where the fuck you been, you little whore?" he spat.
April froze. She didn't flinch, didn't cry. She just looked at me.
I cleared my throat, slow and deliberate.
That's when he saw me — and his face changed. Went from drunk-angry to something else. Something primal. "What the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?"
I didn't answer. I just walked right up to him and let my hand fly. One clean, sharp slap — no wind-up, just force. The crack echoed, and he went flying backward through the drywall like the house was trying to spit him out.
I looked down at April.
"Take care of your mother. I'll be back."
I stepped through the new hole in the wall and found him trying to get up.
I grabbed him by the throat and hauled him up till his feet dangled.
"Pieces of shit like you don't deserve to live," I told him. "You smell like piss and booze. You're the ugliest bastard I've ever laid eyes on."
I smacked him again. This time I didn't pull the punch. His jaw gave under the hit — probably broke clean through. His eyes watered, snot bubbling with every wheeze.
"How's that feel? Huh?" I said, and hit him again. And again. Kept the rhythm going until his face was a mess of tears, blood, and shame.
"Mister, don't kill him."
I turned. April was standing there in the hole, eyes wet but steady. "Don't kill him, mister."
I dropped him. He hit the floor like a bag of wet cement.
Inside, her mother was upright now, leaning against the cabinets. She looked at me like she was seeing something worse than the man I'd just wrecked.
"What are you?" she asked, voice low and ragged.
"I'm an imaginary friend, ma'am," I said. "One who crossed over to this side for a little revenge."
I patted April on the head.
"Well, I'm leaving. Maybe we'll meet again. Maybe we won't."
As I stepped toward the door, ready to vanish from April's life like smoke from a match, I heard her little footsteps padding up behind me.
"Hey… mister," she said, voice trembling. "What's your name?"
I turned around, crouched down so we were eye to eye, and held out my hand. She hesitated, then slipped her small fingers into mine.
"Noirion," I told her.
Her eyes shimmered wet, and before I could pull my hand back, she wrapped her arms around my neck.
"No problem, darling," I said, giving her back a gentle pat. "That's why I'm here—make sure kiddos like you don't get lost in the ugly."
I stood up, turned, and started down the steps. The wood groaned under my boots. The air was damp, heavy with the stink of booze and blood still clinging to my coat. By the time I reached the end of the walkway, I was already sinking back into my own head, replaying that fat bastard's face when I sent him through the wall.
That's when I heard it.
A noise—not footsteps, not a car, not the rain—more like air tearing itself apart, a low, twisting hum that grew sharp. My neck prickled.
"What the fuck…" I muttered, turning to scan the street.
Nothing.
Then—movement. Fast.
Something slammed into me, hard, like a steel beam swung by God himself. My ribs screamed as the world ripped out from under me. My feet left the ground. I was airborne for what felt like forever before my back met brick.
The wall cracked. My lungs emptied in one painful cough.
From somewhere far away, I heard April scream, "Watch out!"
The last thing I remember before darkness took me was thinking—
Did someone get the number of the license plate for that damn truck?
Pain.
That was the first thing I knew when I came back. My body felt like it'd been chewed up and spit out by a goddamn freight train. Every breath scraped my ribs raw. My back protested when I tried to move, but I pushed through, blinking up into the gray light.
And that's when I saw him.
Wings.
Not the soft, glowing kind from Sunday school paintings—these were massive, heavy-feathered things that looked like they could beat a hurricane into submission. he had on armor. Bronze or gold, maybe both, catching the light in hard, unforgiving edges. Roman, maybe? Hell if I knew.
Before I could say a word, the thing leaned down, its shadow swallowing me whole, and grabbed me by the throat. My feet left the ground like I weighed nothing.
Up close, he was huge—seven feet easy, built like someone took a cathedral and taught it how to lift weights. His voice came out low and jagged, like it had been dragged across stone.
"You imaginary? Why are you here?"
I coughed, choking against his grip, and managed to rasp out, "Revenge. What about you?"
No answer—just movement. He hurled me.
I went sailing twenty feet easy, hit the ground, rolled, bounced—hell, I think I hit every rock in the street—but it wasn't until my spine kissed the trunk of an old oak that the pain really kicked in.
I staggered up, cigarette still in my mouth by some miracle, and spat smoke through clenched teeth.
"What the fuck are you doing? Who the fuck are you?"
That made him stop. Just stood there, staring like I'd just blasphemed in a cathedral.
"Why… are you using such words, Imaginary?" he asked, voice quieter now.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I said.
"You're not allowed to."
"Not allowed to? You mean I can't say 'fuck'? But shit—fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"
That's when he stepped forward into the light and I saw him—full view. An angel. Real, wings-and-all, glare-you-down-from-heaven angel.
"You're coming with me," he said, "back to the Imaginary."
"Yeah? Not today, choir boy."
I swung. My fist connected with his jaw in a clean, perfect arc. The impact cracked like a rifle shot. He went flying backward, through the air like I'd just swatted a bug the size of a man, straight into a brick wall. The wall didn't even slow him—he went through it.
I stared at my hand, flexing my fingers. Damn, I'm strong. Lot stronger than I thought.
Without waiting for him to get up, I stepped back into the shadow stretching across the alley. Felt it swallow me whole, the world blurring around me as I melted away into the dark.
I pressed my back against the brick, letting the shadows swallow me whole. My ribs were singin' from that last hit — that angel had hit me like a freight train — but pain's a thing you can put on ice if you've got the will. And I had the will. I always got the will.
That angel came out of the hole in the wall like a bad dream, that same smug son of a halo I'd just traded blows with. He sniffed the air like a bloodhound, head twitchin', tryin' to catch a scent that wasn't there. He couldn't see me. Nobody sees me in the black.
Then he did somethin' that set my teeth on edge — opened his mouth and let out this sound, halfway between a foghorn and Judgment Day. Low, deep, and mean. The kind of noise you don't just hear, you feel in your chest, rattling around like a marble in a tin cup.
That's when the other two came floatin' in. One was a tall drink of water in white — curves that could make a priest forget his vows. The other was built like a statue they never finished carvin', sharp edges all over. They spoke in some language that didn't belong on Earth. It was a kind of talk that made your brain itch, like you weren't meant to hear it.
They split up, driftin' into the night like they owned it. The big guy went right, the dame went left, and the original punk just stood there, eyes sweepin' the dark. I stayed put 'til the coast was clear, 'cause I was in no shape to start round two.
I peeled myself outta the shadows and ducked into the alley. The air was damp, smelled like wet concrete and bad decisions. I sat down hard, let the world fade back into focus. The shadows have their perks, but they don't heal your busted ribs.
That's when I heard the sirens — cops and medics, the whole circus. I followed the noise with my eyes and spotted the flashing lights parked outside April's place. Saw her old man on a stretcher, face swollen up like week-old meat. Heard one of the medics mutter, "Somebody really went to town on this guy with a sledgehammer."
I stayed in the dark and just watched. April's life had just tipped sideways, and whether she knew it or not, mine was already tangled up in hers.
The rain had the alley smelling like rust and rot, and my ribs ached every time I breathed. I'd been sittin' in that shadow long enough to start countin' my regrets when somethin' ahead of me began to… ripple.
Not the air—no. It was reality itself, stretching thin, like someone was pullin' plastic wrap over the mouth of the world.
Then it bulged.
A shape pushed through — all bone angles and slick shadows, eyes like rotted marbles. Its voice scraped the air, dry as tomb dust.
"How… do I pass the veil?"
I stared at it a long second, then looked down at the puddle between us, watching the rain smear my reflection. Looked back up at it and smirked.
"Yeah, no dice, pal. I ain't givin' you squat. You're a damn curse, that's what you are."
It leaned closer, breath like a basement that hadn't seen light in a hundred years.
"You will tell me… or I will take the girl. I will drag Jamie's soul down screaming."
That hit me in the gut. My jaw tightened, my ribs screamed at me for it.
"You ever talk about her like that again, I'll—" I caught myself, pulled the brim of my hat low. "Forget it. You're just a bad dream somebody left out in the rain. And I ain't your ride, demon. Not today. Not ever."
It hissed, a sound like wet glass breaking, and the veil quivered behind it. Then it slid back into whatever hellhole it came from, leaving the alley colder than before.
I stayed in that alley a while after the demon slithered off, watching the thin film of reality seal itself like nothing ever happened. The city kept breathing around me — sirens out front of April's place, cop radios cracking through the night, the muffled cry of someone else's bad luck.
When the last of the flashing lights faded, I stepped out of the shadows. My legs didn't like it. My ribs didn't like it even more. A copper taste sat in my mouth — a little souvenir from my dance with The Heavenly Bouncers. In the imaginary, pain's just a word. Here, it's a religion.
April's front door was warm light in a cold street. I dragged myself across the threshold. She saw me and lit up like I'd brought spring with me. Then she hugged me, hard enough to make me bite down on a groan. The kid was stronger than she looked. Life'll do that to you.
Her mom didn't waste time. Pulled out a medical kit so clean it almost felt holy. The kind of kit you only keep if you've had to patch yourself — or someone else — back together more times than you want to count. She worked on me in silence, her hands steady.
"What beat you up out there?" April finally asked. "All I saw was you getting tossed around."
"Angel," I said.
Her eyes went wide. "Why's an angel attacking you? Are you evil?"
"No, baby," I said. "I'm an imaginary friend."
That's when Smuggles piped up, his little stitched mouth moving like the words had been sewn in. "See, April, it's against the law for us to come here. Illegal, unless the universe or God Himself says otherwise. And nobody's seen God in a long, long time. Only the high angels talk to Him anymore. Most of the rest just enforce the rules."
April blinked. "Rules?"
"Yeah," Smuggles said. "Every kid gets one of us when they're born. We stick with you until you grow up or… well, until you die. Then we're released. Sometimes, when you get older, you forget us, and we change. That's how you get the Easter Bunny, or Santa Claus. All angels now. Started out just like me and him." He jerked his head toward me.
April's smile was pure wonder.
"But there's other things," I said, leaning forward despite the ache. "Things that don't start out good. Demons — they're just nightmares that learned how to walk. Hatred, fear, grief… all the worst parts of people. They pile up in the corners of the imaginary until they start to… congeal. They hunt. They whisper in your dreams. And if they can, they'll hitch a ride across the veil."
April's smile faltered.
"That's what I ran into tonight," I said. "One of those. Wanted me to take it back with me."
Smuggles' button eyes looked darker than usual. "And that's why angels get involved. We're not supposed to be here — and demons sure as hell aren't."
The daylight had crept in like it was sneaking through the blinds, painting the floor in strips. The house was dead quiet — April curled up on the couch, her mom passed out in the recliner, the TV's glow long gone. Just me and Smuggles awake. He sat across from me on the kitchen table, one button eye staring, the other half-hanging by a thread, his little frayed legs dangling.
"So… what's it like?" he asked in that small, scratchy voice of his. "Over there. In the real world."
I leaned back in the chair, rubbing my ribs. The pain was fading. "Brutal," I told him flat. "Everything's sharp. People ain't as nice as you'd hope. And the smells…" I wrinkled my nose. "Everything smells like a fart. And not even the good kind. Over here, you notice everything. Omega-sensitive. Every scent, every sound, every damn thing just turned up too loud."
Smuggles tilted his head. "But… you can say bad words?"
"Yeah," I smirked. "All you want."
He gave this quiet little sigh, the kind you'd expect from someone much older than a stuffed bear. "Wish I could come there. Just once. See it. Maybe… maybe help April."
That one hit me right in the chest. I didn't answer right away. The truth was, I'd give anything to have someone like him watching my back, but the rules… they were chains.
We sat there in the quiet a while longer. I could feel my body knitting itself back together faster than it had any right to. Ribs weren't screaming anymore, just a dull ache. My lip was healing. I knew what that meant — I couldn't stay.
I grabbed a scrap of paper, scrawled out a quick note, and slid it over to him. "Give this to her when she wakes up, alright?"
I got as far as the front door before I heard her voice.
"Don't go."
I turned. April was standing there, rubbing her eyes, hair a mess, looking smaller than she ever had.
"Sorry, kiddo," I said. "I have to. Got somethin' I need to do, and not a lotta time to do it. Angels are hunting me. Demons are trying to make deals. And there's some humans I need to… find." I paused. "I have to get my revenge."
Her lip trembled. "If you ever need anything… we're here."
I gave her a half-smile. "Okay, kiddo." I walked back, knelt down, gave her a hug. She squeezed tighter than I expected. I patted her head.
"I'll miss you," she whispered.
"I'll miss you too."
Then I turned, walked out, and closed the door behind me. I didn't need to look back to know she was crying.
The daylight felt wrong here. Too clean for a world that reeked like this. I kept my hands buried in my coat pockets, fingertips brushing past the rough lining until they found what I was looking for—Jamie's mom's cell phone. A flick, a thumb-swipe, and the cracked screen bled light across my face.
Right direction. Three Stallions Bar.
"Yeah," I muttered, "just like I remembered."
The neighborhood sagged around me—boarded-up storefronts, graffiti curling like dead ivy, air sour with fryer grease and wet dog. I followed it to the bar's front, a squat brick coffin of a place with a crooked neon sign twitching like it had seizures in its sleep.
The stink hit first.
I froze on the threshold, squinting. "Christ," I said under my breath. "Smells like somebody mopped the floor with a cum rag and forgot to wring it out."
Inside, the truth was worse. The drunks weren't just drunk—they were fermenting. Sour piss, old sweat, a couple bowel movements ripening under jeans that hadn't been washed in weeks. I counted at least four walking biohazards before my eyes found the bar.
Behind it stood a man who looked like a refrigerator someone had glued hair onto. Heavy shoulders. Thick neck. A face built for staring you down until you broke.
The man didn't greet me—just waited.
The I took a stool, resting my elbows on wood scarred with knife marks and cigarette burns.
"What'll it be?" the bartender finally asked, voice like wet gravel.
"Looking for a guy named Greg," I said. "If you know him, tell him I'm here for him, capiche?"
The bartender's expression didn't change, but his lips twitched in something close to a smile. Then—BLAM.
The roar came from below the counter, a shotgun coughing buckshot straight into my chest.
I staggered backward, looked down. No blood. No holes. Just the ache of something deeper.
"Huh," I grinned through clenched teeth. "Gun's don't hit as hard as a angel—it does kinda hurts."
I came back over the bar like a storm surge—smashing bottles, splintering shelves—my hand in the bartender's collar. "Where's Greg?" I growled. "He's the only son of a bitch in here I'm looking for."
The man's eyes rolled toward the far corner, where a narrow staircase curled upward into shadow.
"Thank you, mister," I said, tossing the man backward into a heap of glass and spilled beer. "Next time, don't shoot somebody for just asking."
I straightened my coat, flexed my fingers once, and started for the stairs, each step heavy enough to make the wood groan. Somewhere above, Greg was waiting.
The steps creaked like they were trying to warn whoever was upstairs. Halfway up, I glanced back. Most of the drunks weren't moving anymore—either passed out, dead, or evaporated into whatever gutter they crawled out of. Fine by me.
At the top, a hallway stretched ahead, lined with half-shut doors. Behind them—shuffling feet, low moans, weird noises that didn't belong in polite company. I grinned.
"Puppies… come to Daddy."
From the shadows at my feet, two hounds boiled up—sleek, black, and wrong. They didn't growl. They didn't bark. They just slid flat against the floor and went skimming under every door like living stains, hunting.
Screams started immediately. Doors burst open—half-dressed men and women tumbling out. Some had guns. Some had nothing but panic and skin. Bullets cracked the air, but to me they were just angry gnats. I batted them aside and backhanded their owners into the walls.
One of the hounds slipped back into the shadow at my feet. "Last room?" I asked. It didn't answer, but I already knew.
I strolled to the door and knocked. Then my fist went through it.
Inside—cheap wallpaper, cheaper perfume. Naked guy, naked woman.
"You Greg?" I asked.
The guy smirked. "Yeah."
"Well, pull on some pants and put that two-inch punisher back in the holster. We gotta talk." I tilted my head toward the woman. "And you—lace up, sweetheart, and get the fuck out."
She glanced at Greg, unsure. Greg just kept grinning—a slow, greasy smile that didn't match his eyes.