Winter had seized Chicago in a cold, merciless grip. The sky was a seamless curtain of heavy gray clouds that seemed to have no intention of clearing, shedding only a fine, chilling drizzle that settled over the city like a thin veil of mist. The wet streets reflected distorted glimmers of shop signs and streetlights, casting dull yellow streaks across the dark asphalt. The air was sharp and biting, clinging to the lungs with every breath.
Amid the crowd of coat-clad pedestrians—faces buried in collars, walking briskly and purposefully toward unknown destinations—and within the endless spiral of cars whose occasional honks sounded like muffled cries swallowed by the city's vastness, a sixteen-year-old boy walked, lost in the chaos.
Lloyd Smith, with relatively long black hair tucked beneath the hood of his jacket and large brown eyes in which something like anxiety always lingered, wore a uniform-like black jacket and simple gray trousers. With every step on the uneven, sometimes icy pavement, a sharp and familiar pain shot up from his right knee. It was a pain that carried with it a dark, unforgettable memory: falling from a great height and striking the unforgiving ground below. That incident had not only permanently damaged his knee but had carved a deep wound into his psyche as well—an unhealthy fear of crowds and a stutter that tightened his tongue and trapped his words whenever stress took hold.
After passing several quieter side streets, he reached a small shop tucked within a narrow, old alleyway. Its window was blurred by years of dust and the breath of countless visitors. Written in fading black letters on the glass were the words:
"John Lux — Rare Books & Comics."
When he pushed open the old wooden door, its worn paint peeling at the edges, a small rusted bell rang out a faint ding-dong, announcing his arrival. The distinct scent of aged paper, old leather, and sweet dust filled his senses. The interior was narrow and cozy. Dark wooden shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, bowing slightly under the weight of colorful illustrated books, worn paperback novels, and old magazines. The warm yellow glow of an antique desk lamp illuminated only the counter.
Behind that same wooden counter—its surface marked by cup stains and countless scratches—stood an elderly man with neatly trimmed white hair and tired brown eyes behind thick round glasses. Upon seeing Lloyd, he smiled warmly. He wore a simple, clean white shirt.
"Hey there, kid. Thought you wouldn't come out in this weather. Your comics are waiting."
While answering, Lloyd's gaze lingered on a faded poster of an old movie hanging on the wall.
"H-hi, M-Mr. J-John… th-thank you for letting me come… a-are the comics ready?"
With a slow and courteous motion, John pulled out four glossy illustrated volumes from beneath the counter. Their bright colors stood in strange contrast to the shop's worn surroundings.
"Th-thanks… s-sorry, how much do I owe?"
"Kid, you're family here. You've got your own account."
Lloyd shook his head firmly. "N-no… I w-want to pay. Please."
John sighed reluctantly. "Seventy. That's exactly cost price."
Lloyd took out his simple leather wallet from inside his jacket, counted the money carefully, and placed it on the counter. John put it neatly into the drawer of the old wooden register.
"Lloyd, you came alone again? What about your guards? Is Thomas okay with this?"
"I d-don't like people a-all around me all the time… it f-feels like a cage."
In Lloyd's mind, his thoughts were clear and unfiltered:
Mr. John is my father's only real friend. I've been coming here every week since I was seven. In this colorful world of books, I can escape. With him, my stress fades. He doesn't judge me.
Lowering his voice, John said, "By the way, Lloyd… have you heard anything new about Ms. Alice? The famous fortune-teller?"
"You m-mean the one they s-said was dead?"
"That's what the media reported. But rumors say otherwise. They say she died because of her last prophecy. Something about the end of the world. Something truly frightening."
Lloyd paused, as though turning pages in his mind.
"But my f-father… one night I heard him talking on the phone in his office… he s-said Alice is alive… just hiding because of that prophecy… he told me not to tell anyone."
"Your father has every reason to worry, son. Thomas Smith isn't just the CEO of a major tech company—he has influence in this city's politics, maybe even beyond it. When someone like Alice—whose prophecies have always come true—gets so frightened that she goes into hiding… well, everyone should be afraid."
Lloyd hugged the books tightly to his chest, as if drawing strength from them.
"I s-should go, Mr. John. Th-thank you."
"Take care of yourself, Lloyd. Outside these walls, the world can be cruel."
When Lloyd stepped out of the shop, the cold struck his face like a slap. The sky was still the same endless gray curtain, and the icy drizzle continued to fall. The cold stung his cheeks.
I'll walk for a bit… maybe this strange feeling will fade. Then I'll grab a taxi.
Ten minutes later, he found himself near a small, crowded marketplace. Temporary stalls lined the area, vendors loudly advertising their goods. The smells of cheap food, strong perfumes, and damp earth mingled in the air.
Amid all the color and noise, his eyes suddenly caught sight of a faded blue tent. It was old and worn, the fabric torn in several places, loosely tied to metal poles with fraying ropes. Broken wooden crates and a few old folding chairs surrounded it. On a rough piece of cardboard tied to one pole, written in clumsy black marker, were the words:
"Do you want to know your future? Dare to come inside?"
Maybe… maybe this place has answers. I'm afraid of the future… of what Father and Mr. John said… of whether there even is a future at all…
Hesitantly, he pulled aside the entrance flap and stepped in.
Inside, it was dark and unexpectedly cold, as though no heater had ever touched the place. The only source of light was a small LED lamp emitting an artificial, icy blue glow that cast long, strange shadows across the tent walls. The air smelled of old incense and damp soil.
At the center stood a small, worn wooden table scratched and marked by time. On it lay a deck of weathered cards with peculiar symbols, several yellowed sheets of paper, and a small cloudy crystal ball. Two simple wooden chairs faced each other across the table.
Seated on one of them was a young woman, likely in her early thirties. Her long, straight black hair fell over her shoulders like a curtain. Her eyes were unusual—a blend of gold and deep brown that shimmered unnaturally in the blue light. Her skin was pale and smooth, her features beautiful yet strangely neutral.
"Hello, young man. Have you come to see your future? I am Sofia Coppola."
Lloyd, flustered, managed only: "Y-yes."
"You have social anxiety. It's clear from your posture. From your eyes."
Lloyd stared at her in shock, as though she had uncovered a secret.
"H-how… how do you k-know that?"
A faint, almost emotionless smile touched her lips.
"Because my job is to know what others do not. I am a fortune-teller."
In Lloyd's mind, a silent shout erupted:
Do you think I'm stupid? I'm Thomas Smith's son. Maybe she's trying to scam me… or worse. I should've brought Gary. Too late now. Stay calm. Just act like a normal customer.
"Come sit. Don't worry. I'm just like everyone else," she said softly, almost hypnotically.
Sure. "Normal." My instincts are screaming that if I run now, something worse will happen.
Cautiously, he pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. The wood creaked slightly under his weight.
"So, dear… do you want to know about your future? Or your past? Perhaps both?"
Fear was beginning to take hold of him, but he tried to steady his voice.
"I-I… w-want to know the future."
"Give me your right hand."
Now what?
Sofia closed her eyes.
A heavy silence fell between them—so deep that Lloyd could hear the pounding of his own heart. Moments stretched like hours.
She opened her eyes and stared directly into his.
"You will either save the world… or destroy it.
Your future is bright… because everything shines just before the darkest moment.
But your past…"
She paused briefly.
"I see only sorrow. Only pain… and profound loneliness."
Her words struck his heart like a spear. A tear rushed unbidden to the corner of his eye, but he forced it back, struggling to appear indifferent.
"M-ma'am… h-how much do I owe? I need to go."
With the same faint, unreadable smile, she replied, "There's no need to pay. Why would I take money from someone who will serve the world so greatly in the future? Go."
"Th-then I'll l-leave. Goodbye."
"Farewell, Lloyd. And… be careful."
Lloyd stepped out of the tent, forcing his face to appear calm and detached, though a storm raged within him and cold sweat covered his back and forehead.
What am I supposed to do now? Who was that woman? How did she know my name? No ordinary fortune-teller would know that… I should call the police…
Suddenly, the heavy weight of a hand fell on his shoulder.
"Ah!"