Kota stirred in his bed, the faint morning light filtering through the thin blinds of his small room. The posters on the walls faded images of pre-Vanishing football legends like Tom Brady and Walter Payton seemed to watch him with silent approval as he blinked awake. His body ached in places he hadn't noticed last night: a dull throb in his thighs from the "work" at the construction site, a faint soreness in his back from the car's reclined seat antics with Theo. He stretched, joints popping, and glanced at the clock on his nightstand. 8:00 a.m. exactly. Sunday morning, no school, no fake job to rush to—at least, not that he knew of yet. The apartment was unusually quiet, the usual sounds of Khalil clanging pots in the kitchen or grumbling at the TV absent. No scent of brewing coffee or sizzling eggs wafted under his door. Curiosity piqued, Kota swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the cool linoleum floor.
He padded to the door in his boxers, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Taped to the wood at eye level was a handwritten note in Khalil's blocky scrawl, the paper torn from an old notepad. Kota peeled it off, squinting at the words under the hallway light that seeped through the cracks.
"Son—got called in for a 12-hour shift. Double overtime, can't pass it up. Food in the fridge. Be a man and tough it out today. Stay strong, no slacking. Proud of you. —Dad"
Kota read it twice, a mix of relief and amusement washing over him. Relief because it meant a day without scrutiny—no probing questions about the "job," no lectures on masculinity over breakfast. Amusement because Khalil's tough-love pep talks never changed: always "be a man," "tough it out," as if the world was a constant battlefield testing one's grit. In this new reality, with its exaggerated bodies and shifted norms, Khalil clung to those ideals like a lifeline, shielding Kota from what he saw as pervasive weakness. Kota folded the note and tucked it into his drawer, next to the phone that was now officially his. A full day alone—rare freedom. He could text Theo without sneaking, maybe even binge some old sports clips on the restricted internet access Khalil had once monitored.
But before he could plan further, the phone buzzed on his nightstand, vibrating against the wood with insistent urgency. Kota grabbed it, screen lighting up with a notification from Beckett. His stomach twisted slightly Beckett's texts were never casual; they carried that clinical, otherworldly vibe that made Kota's skin crawl. He unlocked the device and opened the message, the words popping up in crisp black text.
Beckett: Salutations. I am presently stationed exterior to your residential edifice, adjacent to the ingress point. A U-Haul conveyance vehicle (operational status confirmed despite post-Vanishing economic fluctuations—enterprise resilience attributable to diversified logistics models) is laden with requisite artifacts for the elevated domicile in Unit 11D. Assistance is mandated from a capable individual of above-average physical constitution to facilitate relocation of select items: primary couch assemblage (dimensions: 84 inches length, 36 inches depth, 32 inches height; mass approximately 120 pounds) and the 8-foot tall onyx crystal monolith (polished black onyx, cylindrical form with ritual engravings, mass estimated at 450 pounds; requires two-person lift for stability during transport via freight elevator). Your tether attunement designates you as the optimal collaborator. Proceed forthwith.
Kota's eyes scanned the message, parsing Beckett's robotic prose with growing bewilderment. Outside? Now? A U-Haul—somehow still in business, which was a minor miracle in itself, given how supply chains had fractured after The Vanishing. Furniture stores barely existed anymore; most people scavenged or 3D-printed basics. But Beckett, with his Hawthorne wealth, probably had access to whatever relics he wanted. The request for help moving a couch made some sense—Beckett's slim, ethereal build wasn't suited for heavy lifting, and Kota's athletic frame fit the "above-average" bill. But as his gaze hit the phrase "8-foot tall onyx crystal," he froze. The words jumped out like a glitch in reality. Onyx crystal? Eight feet tall? His mind reeled, conjuring images of some massive, gleaming black obelisk, etched with whatever arcane symbols Beckett obsessed over in his cult basement.
He stopped reading right there, the rest of the text blurring into irrelevance. Why the fuck does he need an onyx crystal, let alone one that's 8 feet tall!?!?
The question exploded in his head, a mix of exasperation, confusion, and a touch of dread. Beckett's "fellowship" rants came flooding back—the crystals for chakra alignments, ethereal unions, seminal bindings. Onyx was probably some grounding stone or whatever pseudoscience bullshit he spouted, but eight feet? That wasn't a decorative knick-knack; that was a monument, something you'd see in a museum or a mad scientist's lair. How had Beckett even acquired it? Shipped from some pre-Vanishing quarry? And why drag Kota into this now, on a Sunday morning when he finally had breathing room? The tether thing—the bite mark that supposedly linked them—felt like a chain tightening. Kota glanced out his window, peering down at the street below. Sure enough, a battered orange-and-white U-Haul truck idled at the curb, Beckett's pale figure visible beside it, dressed in his signature black robe, hood pulled low despite the mild weather. A few neighbors cast curious glances, but in this neighborhood, weird deliveries weren't unheard of.
Kota paced his room, phone clutched in his hand. Part of him wanted to ignore the text, pretend he was still asleep, let Beckett handle his own freakish move-in. But ignoring Beckett never worked; the kid was relentless, his messages escalating from clinical to insistent, laced with threats of "dissonant vibrations" or worse, showing up unannounced. And with Khalil gone for twelve hours, there was no buffer—no stern father to scare off the weirdo. Kota could already imagine Beckett knocking on the door, spouting about auras and congress in that flat, emotionless tone. Better to deal with it head-on, get it over with, and set boundaries later. But that crystal... eight feet of polished onyx? It screamed overkill, a centerpiece for whatever rituals Beckett had planned in Unit 11D. Was it for the "Arch-Anal Coalition of Seminal Indulgence"? Some altar for their weekend meetings? The thought made Kota's skin crawl, a reminder of how entangled he'd become in the Hawthornes' web.
He fired off a quick text to Theo while pulling on jeans and a hoodie—nothing fancy, just practical for lifting. "Beckett's here with a U-Haul. Needs help moving shit, including an 8ft onyx crystal. Wtf? You know about this?" Theo's reply came almost instantly: "Oh god... yeah, he mentioned 'artifacts' last night. Be careful—his stuff's heavy and... weird. Want me to come over?" Kota hesitated, then typed back: "Nah, I got it. But if I disappear into a crystal ritual, avenge me." He pocketed the phone, slipped on sneakers, and headed downstairs, the elevator groaning its familiar descent. The lobby was empty, the bulletin board still cluttered with faded flyers. Outside, the morning air nipped at him, carrying the faint exhaust from the idling truck.
Beckett stood motionless by the U-Haul's rear door, his platinum hair peeking from under the hood, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the overcast sky. The truck's cargo area was partially open, revealing shadowy shapes inside: boxes labeled with cryptic symbols, a black velvet couch that looked plush and oversized, and looming behind it, a tall, wrapped form that could only be the crystal—bundled in protective foam and straps, its height dominating the space. Beckett turned as Kota approached, expression blank as ever. "Punctual. Optimal. The monolith requires immediate relocation to mitigate vibrational interference from vehicular motion."
Kota stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. The question burned in his throat, demanding an answer before he lifted a finger.
"Why the fuck do you need an onyx crystal, let alone one that's 8 feet tall!?!?"