I held the box a little closer to my chest, unsure what to do with my hands, with my eyes, with the weight of everything he had just handed me.
"Thank you for this, Mr. Tristan," I said. My voice came out quieter than I intended.
He waved it off and bent down to pick up a loose bolt from the floor, rolling it between his fingers. "I'm doing this because you're my godson."
I froze.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Godson? I stared at him, at the messy red lab coat, the crooked glasses, the man who lived beside a gang compound and kept a miniature sun under his house. Why would my parents—my father—agree to something like that?
He glanced at me over the rim of his glasses, clearly enjoying my silence. "What? You look like I just told you the moon is made of cheese."
"I just… didn't know," I managed.
"Well, now you do." He clapped his hands once, sharp and sudden. "So, do you want weapons?"
I shook my head immediately. "No. I'm not in danger anyway."
He hummed, unconvinced, and started rearranging a stack of tools that were already stacked. "Not now," he said.
Something about his tone made my skin prickle. "Do you know something?"
He paused, screwdriver hovering in midair. For once, he didn't joke right away. "I don't," he said carefully. "But the world is changing, kid. Drastically. And trust me—this isn't the kind of change people write hopeful speeches about. It's uglier. Meaner."
I swallowed. "I really don't need guns. The hood and pants are enough."
He studied me for a long second, then sighed and shrugged. "Alright. Your choice. I won't turn you into a walking arsenal… yet."
He turned and headed back toward the hidden door, muttering, "Kids these days. No appreciation for firepower."
I followed him up, the steel door sealing behind us with a soft, final click. When we reached the living room, the TV was still playing, some overly dramatic noon show where people cried over nothing.
"Where's your toilet?" I asked. "I want to change."
He pointed without looking, already digging through a pile of papers. "Quite impatient, huh. Straight past the kitchen. Door at the end. And don't touch anything that hums."
"I don't want to walk around the city in my uniform," I added. "It's too early to go home. I'm heading to a bookstore."
"Responsible and cultured," he said. "Your father would be proud."
I changed quickly. The black hood and pants fit almost too well, light and flexible, plain enough to disappear in a crowd. When I stepped back out, he looked me over, nodding in approval.
"Perfect," he said. "Like I tailored it for you or something."
"Thanks," I said again, more sincerely this time.
Outside, as I walked through the slum, I noticed cameras tucked into corners, half-hidden behind rusted signs and broken lights. I didn't need to see Tristan to know he was watching.
When I reached the main road, I spotted the same taxi from earlier, idling by the curb.
Was he waiting for me?
I approached anyway. "Mister… were you waiting?"
He smiled through the rearview mirror. "Yes. Few taxis come this way. Cheaper to wait than waste fuel driving back."
I nodded and climbed in. "Business district, please."
"Got it," he said, starting the engine as the car pulled away.
I checked my phone as the taxi rolled forward, the city sliding past the window in long, blurred streaks of light and shadow. The hum of the engine was steady, almost hypnotic. Too steady.
Several notifications crowded the screen. Mae.
Where have you been?
Nick, please answer.
I'm sorry. I really am.
I love you.
Can we try again? Just once.
My thumb hovered over the screen. For a moment, I felt the familiar pull—the memory of her voice, the way she laughed when she tried not to cry. My chest tightened, not with longing, but with exhaustion. Whatever we were, whatever we had been, it felt like a lifetime ago.
I locked the phone without replying.
The silence felt cruel, but necessary.
Instead, I texted my father, "Dad, I'm done. I'll go to the bookstore first before returning home."
A reply came fast, "Ok."
I opened the browser and typed into the search bar: Nihilkin sightings.
Results flooded in instantly. News snippets. Blurred videos. A link to a newly established forum caught my eye. I tapped it.
The page loaded slowly, then exploded into chaos.
Threads upon threads, scrolling faster than I could read. The member count sat just above ten thousand. Joined today, a banner proudly declared. Hundreds of posts, all dated within the last twenty-four hours. The internet had found a new obsession.
Most of the images were garbage—grainy silhouettes, shadowy figures caught mid-motion, faces warped by bad lighting or cheap filters. Some were obviously AI-generated, limbs bending the wrong way, eyes glowing too evenly. Still, people argued in the comments like their lives depended on it.
Then one post pinned itself to the top.
#InfernoMan
My thumb slowed as I tapped it.
The video started shaky. Someone breathing hard behind the camera. A building in flames, smoke billowing out of shattered windows. Then a figure stepped through the fire.
A man.
His entire body was burning—head to toe—yet he walked as if he were strolling through light rain. The flames clung to him, curling around his shoulders and arms, but he didn't flinch. No screams. No panic. Just calm, deliberate steps.
Police sirens wailed. Officers rushed into frame, guns raised, shouting commands I couldn't quite make out over the crackle of the fire.
The man stopped.
He raised one hand.
The screen flared white.
Fire erupted outward, swallowing the officers whole. The camera jerked violently as the person filming screamed. Other voices joined in—panic, agony, someone yelling for help. The lens swung back toward the burning officers, their silhouettes writhing inside the flames.
When the camera snapped back to where the man had been, he was gone.
The comment section was already a warzone.
@dummbledoor: Did they catch him??
@Kinkyfish: Are the cops alive? Someone say something.
@BillieThomas: This is why they need to be hunted down.
@HitGirl: How many people died??
@PepeScores: This thing is a walking disaster.
My stomach churned.
I scrolled further, forcing myself to keep reading. Post after post painted Nihilkins as monsters—unstoppable, inhuman, walking calamities. But every so often, buried between the fear and rage, there were different stories.
One caught my eye.
#GuardianAngel
Same fire. Same location.
A different angle.
This time, the video was filmed from the top floor of a nearby building. Smoke filled the frame, people coughing and crying. Then something dropped into view from above.
A man with wings.
Not feathers. Not fur in his body. Just smooth, pale white wings stretching wide from his back. He looked almost normal otherwise—jeans, jacket, a cheap masked raider mask obscuring his face. One by one, he lifted trapped civilians, carrying them across the gap to the safer building where the person filming stood. Each trip looked heavier than the last.
When he set down the final person, he collapsed to one knee, wings trembling.
Police arrived moments later. Guns raised. Shouting.
The winged man pushed himself up, spread his wings, and with a violent gust of wind, launched himself into the smoke-filled sky.
The video ended there.
I stared at the screen, my reflection faintly visible in the glass. Heroes. Monsters. Sometimes both in the same night. Despair comes hope.
I locked my phone and looked up.
The cityscape outside the taxi had changed.
The buildings were farther apart now. Streetlights fewer. The road stretched too wide, too empty. My pulse quickened.
"This isn't the way to the business district," I said, leaning forward.
The driver met my gaze in the rearview mirror.
His eyes were dull. Empty. Like the lights were on, but no one was home.
"We're almost there," he said flatly.
Cold crept up my spine.
I reached for the door handle, heart hammering. The latch clicked. I shoved the door open—
The taxi stopped.
Abruptly.
I looked around, breath catching.
Vehicles emerged from the shadows, blocking the road ahead and behind. Figures stepped out, their movements slow, deliberate. I shut the door without thinking.
I was surrounded.