Peter ignored their worthless father and went straight to Will's room. The door was already open. Inside, Will sat on the edge of his bed with his back against the wall, one leg bent up, a stack of library books spread across the mattress and the floor. The books were thick, most of them older editions with faded covers and cracked spines, library stickers peeling at the corners. One lay open in his lap, pages creased where he had bent them flat.
It was an advanced mathematics book. The kind that skipped explanations and assumed you already knew the foundation. Will's eyes moved fast across the page, brow tight, one finger resting in the margin as if anchoring the line.
Will had never gotten a single question wrong on a test. His grades were perfect. If not for a shitty father and an underfunded school system that barely noticed kids like him, he would have been labeled a generational genius without debate. He was that smart. Half the time, Peter didn't even understand what Will was talking about when he explained things, and Will explained them anyway.
Peter looked down at himself. He was already dressed, clothes neat and clean despite being secondhand. His shirt was ironed flat, jeans free of wrinkles. His hair was combed back, still slightly damp, and he smelled faintly of cheap soap. He liked things orderly. It helped him think.
Will glanced up and smirked.
"Hey, worm," Will said.
Peter rolled his eyes but smiled.
"Let's go," Will said, closing the book and stacking it with the others. "We'll grab a burrito at the local spot. I've got a few bucks."
Peter's face brightened. "Okay, Superman."
Will sighed through his nose. That nickname had stuck years ago, and no amount of complaining had ever killed it.
They left the apartment together and headed down the stairs, the metal railing cold under Will's palm. Outside, the air was warm but not heavy, late spring settling in properly. It was mid-May. Trees along the street were full again, leaves brushing together in a light breeze. The sky was pale blue, washed out by the city, with thin clouds drifting slow overhead.
The street was already awake. Buses hissed at the curb. A bodega door slammed open and shut as people went in for coffee and lottery tickets. The sidewalk smelled like damp concrete, car exhaust, and fresh bread from somewhere down the block. School would be over soon. You could feel it in the way people moved.
Will talked as they walked. He planned to finish his GED at the library over the summer and work at the gym full time next year. He said it plainly, like it was already decided. Peter listened, nodding, occasionally adjusting his backpack strap. He said he could help Will study if he wanted.
Will rolled his eyes but didn't argue.
They reached the Mexican food truck parked near the corner, wedged between a lamppost and a no-parking sign. The truck was old, white paint chipped and dulled, one side panel dented inward. A handwritten menu was taped near the window, grease-stained and sun-faded. A small speaker inside played low music that crackled between songs.
The smell hit them immediately. Eggs frying. Spiced meat. Warm tortillas. Cilantro and onions carried on the steam rolling out from the open window.
Will ordered one large breakfast burrito. The guy inside wrapped it tight in foil, folding it with practiced hands. It was heavy when Will took it, warmth bleeding through the paper bag.
He paid in cash.
The money had come from a kid at school.
Will wasn't proud of it, but he needed more than frozen waffles and corn dogs, which were the only things his father ever bought. If that meant roughing up some richer kids, that was how it went. He wasn't reckless. He stayed away from anyone with gang ties or real influence. He picked targets who wouldn't come looking later.
They leaned against a brick wall and split the burrito. Steam rose when Will tore it open. Scrambled eggs spilled slightly, mixed with meat, potatoes, and melted cheese. Grease soaked into the foil and dripped onto the sidewalk. The tortilla was soft but held together, warm enough to burn if you weren't careful.
Peter ate neatly, holding his half with both hands, careful not to let anything fall. Will didn't bother. He ate fast, chewing between breaths, already thinking about training later, about the gym, about everything he wanted that didn't exist yet.
For a few minutes, the street noise faded into the background.
After that came school, which Will mostly endured rather than participated in.
He barely passed tests, scraping by on instinct and half-remembered explanations rather than studying. He put little effort into assignments beyond what was necessary to avoid getting flagged, turning in work that was technically complete but clearly rushed. His notebooks stayed thin, pages creased and smudged rather than filled. Pens rolled off his desk more often than they were used. He listened just enough to recognize when a teacher's tone shifted toward him, then let his attention drift until the bell rang.
School felt like wasted hours stacked end to end.
During passing period, a football coach caught him near the lockers, the metal doors rattling as students slammed them shut around them. The hallway smelled like sweat, floor cleaner, and cheap cologne. The coach smiled wide and dropped a heavy hand on Will's shoulder, squeezing like he was testing muscle. He talked about Will's size, his frame, and how he should really think about trying out again. He mentioned NIL money, how college players could get paid now for their name, image, and likeness, like a scholarship plus endorsements was supposed to make everything worth it.
That was all anyone ever saw when they looked at Will.
They never saw the bruises under his clothes. They never saw the apartment paid for by the state or the empty bottles on the floor. They never saw his father passed out on the couch or his brother hunched over books, working through things adults struggled to understand.
Will gave a vague answer and moved on, slipping through the crowd without slowing down.
He wanted more than what school was offering him.
Sure, NIL money was big now, and everyone talked about college football and basketball like they were guaranteed paths, but MMA was everywhere. Fights played on TVs in bar windows and corner shops. Clips spread nonstop online. Fighters were household names now, breaking into movies, sponsorships, and pay-per-view numbers that rivaled major sports. Gyms were packed, promotions were multiplying, and the sport kept getting bigger every year. To Will, it felt honest in a way nothing else did.
One person against another. No teammates to hide behind. No systems to carry you. Just preparation, damage, and results.
After school, he took Peter to the park for an hour. The benches were chipped and sun-faded, the metal still warm from the afternoon sun. The grass was worn thin in places where kids played every day, and a basketball echoed against concrete from the nearby court. They sat at a picnic table and played speed chess on the small folding board Will carried in his backpack. The pieces clicked fast and sharp as Peter moved them with confidence. Peter won two games easily, barely pausing to think. Will watched without frustration, adjusting the board between matches.
From there, they went to the gym where Will volunteered. Peter sat on a bench near the wall with his backpack open, working through homework and reading between problems, flipping pages carefully. Will cleaned mats, wiped down equipment, and emptied trash cans, the smell of disinfectant clinging to his hands and clothes by the time he finished.
After that, they walked home together.
It was around seven-thirty when they moved along the Queens sidewalk, the sky darkening but not fully gone, streetlights buzzing on one by one. Storefronts glowed behind metal grates, cars passed in steady lines, and music drifted from open windows as they walked.
Peter talked the entire way, rambling about renewable energy and ideas Will did not fully understand. Will listened anyway, because he liked hearing his brother's voice fill the space between them.
No matter what happened, Will would take care of him.
It was a volunteer day, so Will trained in his room after he sent Peter to bed.
He slid the bed against the wall and worked in the space it left behind. Push-ups. Squats. Sit-ups. The carpet was thin and rough under his hands. Sweat ran down his temples and soaked the waistband of his shorts. His breathing shortened as the burn spread, familiar and trusted. He kept going until his arms shook and his legs lagged behind what he asked of them.
When he stopped, his chest rose fast and shallow, heart thudding hard enough to feel in his throat. He stood, went to the bathroom, and soaked a towel under cold water. The fabric was stiff and heavy. He dragged it across his face, neck, and arms, then let it drop to the floor. As he turned back toward his room, the pain arrived.
It struck his head first, sharp and exact, like a spike driven straight through the center of his skull. His breath vanished. Light flared across his vision, breaking the hallway into fragments. The sensation rushed downward, flooding his spine and limbs at once, every nerve igniting together.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs. Each beat felt wrong, too hard, too fast. His knees folded and he caught the doorframe with both hands, fingers digging into the wood as his body shook. Heat rolled through him, then cold, then heat again. His stomach clenched hard enough to make him gag.
He thought he was dying.
As the pain tore through him, something else pressed in, a sense of scale he couldn't ignore. This wasn't contained to his body or his apartment. It felt everywhere. Like the world itself had seized.
Across the city, people were dropping where they stood. On sidewalks. In buses. In kitchens and bedrooms and hospital wards. Sirens cut off mid-wail. Conversations died in half-words. Bodies slumped against walls or folded to the ground.
Across the planet, the same thing was happening.
Infants barely a minute old screamed until their lungs failed them. Toddlers went rigid in cribs. Teenagers collapsed in classrooms. Adults dropped at work, at home, behind the wheel. Elderly men and women convulsed in chairs, in beds, in nursing homes, some never waking again. From newborns to people who had lived more than a century, every single one of them was hit at the same time.
Many passed out where they stood. Some never regained consciousness. The weakest simply stopped.
Will couldn't see any of it, but he felt it. The weight of it. The certainty that this wasn't random and it wasn't personal. Humanity, all of it, was being dragged through the same moment together.
He dropped to the floor.
His body curled tight, knees pulled to his chest, arms locked around his head. Muscles seized in uneven waves. A scream tore out of him, raw and uncontrolled, shredding his throat. Sweat poured off him, slicking the carpet beneath his cheek. His jaw clenched until his teeth ground together.
The pain did not ebb. It stayed bright and constant, filling him until there was no room for anything else.
He was dying. That was all there was to it.
Then a single thought cut through the panic.
Peter.
Will forced his eyes open. The ceiling swam. He dragged air into his lungs in short, jagged pulls and planted one trembling hand on the floor. The contact sent another surge of pain through his arm, but he pushed anyway. He rose to his knees, then to his feet, legs wobbling beneath him.
If he was dying, he wasn't doing it alone.
He staggered into the hallway with one hand sliding along the wall for balance. Each step sent sharp flashes of pain up his spine. His vision narrowed and widened again. The apartment felt tilted, unstable.
His father burst from the living room.
Will couldn't make out sound clearly through the ringing in his head, but he saw it. His father ran full speed down the hall, face twisted, mouth open wide. He slammed into the far wall hard enough to punch straight through it. Drywall exploded outward. His father dropped and convulsed on the floor, limbs jerking violently.
Will kept going.
He dragged himself to Peter's door and shoved it open.
Peter was on the floor, curled tight, hands fisted in his shirt, face red and wet. His body shook with every breath.
Will crossed the room and dropped beside him, back sliding down the wall. He hooked an arm under Peter's shoulders and pulled him close, lifting him onto his lap the way he had after nightmares and bad nights. Peter clutched at him immediately, fingers gripping Will's shirt.
Will wrapped both arms around his brother and held on. He felt Peter's heartbeat hammering against his chest, fast and terrified. Will forced his breathing to slow and matched it to Peter's, anchoring them both.
"I've got you," Will said, voice rough and shaking.
He believed he was dying, right there on the floor, with his brother in his arms, while the rest of humanity was breaking at the same time.