The Chicago winter had the city in a cold, merciless hold. The sky hung low and gray, and a fine drizzle blurred the glow of streetlights against the slick asphalt. The air bit at every breath. People hurried past with collars turned up and heads down. In the middle of it all, a sixteen-year-old boy walked alone, swallowed by the noise.
Lloyd Smith kept his hood up, dark hair hidden, anxious brown eyes scanning the crowd. He wore a black jacket and plain gray pants, nothing that drew attention. With every step, a familiar ache flared in his right knee, a reminder of the fall years ago that had broken more than bone. Since then, crowds made his chest tighten, and when he was stressed, his words sometimes tripped over each other.
After a few quieter blocks, he slipped into an old alley and stopped in front of a narrow shop. The fogged window read in faded letters:
John Locks — Rare Books and Comics.
A small bell jingled as he pushed the door open. Warm air carrying the scent of paper and leather wrapped around him. Shelves climbed to the ceiling, crammed with books and aging comic issues. A single desk lamp cast a soft pool of light over the counter.
Behind it stood an elderly man with neatly combed white hair and thick glasses.
"Evening, kid. Didn't expect you in this weather. Your comics came in."
Lloyd glanced up from a vintage poster on the wall.
"Hi, Mr. Locks. Thanks for calling. They ready?"
John set four glossy issues on the counter.
"Seventy. That's my price."
Lloyd counted the bills carefully and slid them over.
"Thanks."
John studied him for a moment.
"You're on your own again? Thomas doing okay?"
Lloyd shrugged.
"I just don't like people hovering. Feels like a cage."
This is the only place I can breathe, he thought.
John lowered his voice.
"You heard anything about Miss Alice? The fortune teller?"
Lloyd hesitated.
"Most people say she's dead. My dad thinks she's alive. Just in hiding."
John's expression darkened.
"When someone who's never been wrong about the future gets scared… that's when everyone else should be."
Lloyd tucked the comics under his arm.
"I should get going. Take care of yourself."
---
Ten minutes later, he drifted past a crowded night market. Music clashed with shouting vendors. The smell of fried food mixed with rain. Lights flickered everywhere.
Then he saw it. A worn blue tent wedged between two stalls. A crooked piece of cardboard hung out front:
Want to know your future?
Dare to step inside?
His pulse quickened. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe not.
Inside, the air was colder. A small blue LED lamp cast a ghostly glow over a wooden table. Strange cards lay scattered beside a cloudy crystal ball.
A woman in her early thirties sat waiting. Long black hair framed a sharp, pale face. Her eyes, flecked with gold and brown, seemed almost metallic in the blue light.
"Welcome," she said calmly. "Looking for answers? I'm Sophia Strain."
Lloyd swallowed.
"Maybe."
She studied him for a second.
"You don't like crowds. Social anxiety. You carry it in your shoulders."
His brow lifted.
"How can you tell?"
She gave a faint smile.
"That's what I do. I notice things."
Careful, he told himself.
"Sit," she said gently.
He did.
"I want to know what happens to me," he said.
"Give me your right hand."
Her fingers closed around his. She shut her eyes. The tent went silent except for the dull thud of his heartbeat.
Seconds stretched.
When she opened her eyes again, they locked onto his.
"You will either save this world… or help destroy it."
The words seemed to settle in the air between them.
"Your future burns bright," she continued softly. "Because just before everything goes dark, there's always a blaze."
Her grip tightened slightly.
"But your past… it's heavy. I see loss. Pain. A loneliness that never really left."
Something twisted inside his chest, but he kept his face steady.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing," she said. "I don't charge people like you."
"Like me?"
But she only smiled.
He stood.
"Goodbye."
"Be careful, Lloyd."
Cold air rushed over him as he stepped back into the night. His thoughts tangled together.
How did she know my name?
A heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder.
He flinched.
"Hey—"
.