The city exhaled in the hour before dawn, its streets slick with rain and the occasional glint of broken glass catching the glow of dying streetlights.
Ruben Okoro moved through the shadows like a stray dog, quiet, tense, all sharp edges beneath his oversized hoodie. His sneakers scuffed against wet pavement as he cut through an alley, the familiar stench of rotten garbage and wet concrete filling his nose. He no longer flinched at the sound of a rat scurrying past his feet.
The fire escape ladder groaned under his weight as he climbed, the rusted metal biting into his palms. He didn't care. Pain was just another sting to swallow and bury.
At the top, he settled on the edge, legs dangling over the three-story drop. The cigarette he pulled from his pocket was bent, but it lit on the first try with the lighter he brought. He sucked in the smoke, holding it until his lungs burned, then exhaled slowly, watching the gray plume dissolve into the cold air.
Below him, the city was still half-asleep. A delivery truck rumbled in the distance. Somewhere, a car alarm warbled before cutting off abruptly.
But Ruben wasn't looking at the streets.
His gaze was fixed on the bridge.
Her bridge.
Three years. Three years since her arms wrapped around him, since her voice, soft and downtrodden, had whispered in his ear.
"It'll be quick, baby. We'll be free."
He hadn't understood it then. He was a dummy, a stupid child with no power. He wishes he understood it, but he hadn't. Not until the railing disappeared behind them. Not until the wind screamed in his ears. Not until the water…
His fingers twitched. The cigarette tumbled from his grip, a tiny ember spiralling down into the dark.
***
He didn't remember deciding to go there.
But his feet carried him anyway.
The bridge wasn't far. Just a fifteen-minute walk through streets that grew quieter the closer he got. The river below was black, sluggish, swallowing the occasional reflection of neon from the buildings lining its banks. The railings were cold under his fingers as he stepped onto the walkway, his breath fogging in front of him.
This was where she'd stood. Right here.
He could still feel her hands on his shoulders.
"Look at the water Ruben. Isn't it pretty?"
His grip tightened. The metal dug into his palms.
"You're here early."
The voice, familiar and raspy, like the man had swallowed gravel and never quite coughed it back up. Ruben didn't turn, but he didn't tense either. He knew who it was.
The homeless man named Isaiah, he shuffled into view, his layers of tattered coats making him look broader than he really was. His beard was more gray than black now, his dark skin weathered by years of living rough. But his eyes were sharp. Too sharp.
Ruben said nothing.
Isaiah leaned against the railing beside him, close enough that Ruben could smell the stale alcohol on his breath. "Ain't even light out yet," he muttered, squinting at the horizon. "You're tryin' to freeze to death?"
Ruben's jaw clenched. "Fuck off."
Isaiah chuckled, unfazed. "Yeah, yeah." He pulled a dented flask from his coat, took a swig, then held it out. Ruben groaned and then ignored him.
They stood in silence for a while, the river murmuring below.
Isaiah was the one who'd called for help that night. The one who'd seen them fall. Ruben didn't remember much after the impact, just the cold, the choking on water, the hands dragging him from the water.
But he remembered Isaiah's face hovering over him in the ambulance.
"Kid. Kid, look at me. Breathe."
Ruben had screamed for his mother. He remembers how the sound of screeching came from his voice, it was violent and it tore through his throat.
He didn't scream anymore. He wasn't sure he even could.
***
His school loomed like a prison.
Ruben slipped in through the side entrance, the one with the broken camera, just as the first bell rang. The halls were packed, students shoving past each other, laughter and shouts bouncing off the lockers.
But the noise dimmed slightly as he passed.
He felt the stares. The quick glances. The way people shifted out of his path just a little faster than necessary.
They didn't whisper about his mother anymore. Or at least, it wasn't where he could hear.
But they remembered his fights.
They had remembered the way he had broken Jamie Carter's nose last year for shoving him in the cafeteria. The way he'd sent Tyler Moore to the nurse's office with a split lip after the kid tried to pants him.
Ruben wasn't big. Wasn't some hulking brute.
But he was fast. And he didn't hold back.
His English teacher, Ms. Patel, barely glanced up as he slouched into the room. She didn't bother marking him late. Didn't bother asking him where he'd been.
Ruben liked that about her.
Ms. Patel was the only teacher who didn't treat him like a ticking time bomb. She didn't hover, didn't ask him gentle questions with that awful I-feel-sorry-for-you voice. She just let him exist, which was more than he could say for most adults.
Today, she was perched on the edge of her desk, flipping through a stack of papers with the enthusiasm of someone reading a grocery list.
"Alright, sufferers of my existence," she announced, voice as dry as chalk dust. "Pop quiz."
A collection groan rippled through the room.
Ms. Patel smirked. "Oh, don't give me that. It's three questions. If you fail, I'll assume you've been replaced by a poorly programmed android and report you to the government."
Someone in the front row snorted.
Ruben didn't react, but the corner of his mouth almost twitched.
His seat was in the back, near the window. The girl who sat beside him, Maya, was his step-sister.
She'd been reading a book, her fingers curled tight around the edges. Something with a dragon on its cover. She had been weirdly interested in learning about the creatures of myth recently.
Ruben ignored her.
He wasn't used to her presence. Not really.
She'd been there for two years now, ever since her mom married his dad, but she still felt like a stranger. Worse than a stranger. Strangers didn't look at him the way she did. Like she was waiting for something.
He didn't hate her.
Although hate would have been easier.
But Maya was just… there. Quiet. Unobtrusive. Like a shadow. She didn't bother him, but he just felt incredibly awkward whenever she was around.
She was a bean head. Naive and always curious. She was kind and thoughtful, it was weird when she first came around, it was like receiving whiplash. Ruben wasn't used to such kindness in his house when she was there, it was a little overwhelming and he just then further secluded himself.
Her turquoise coloured eyes were scanning the words across her book and her hand brushed away her curly hair that fell into its pages.
And sometimes, when she thought he wasn't looking, she left granola bars in his backpack. Like he was some stray cat she was trying to tame.
Ruben pulled out his notebook, flipping past the pages of half finished sketches.
Most were just random monsters from comics he had picked up or shows he had watched. Just a lot of things with too many eyes, too many teeth, and limbs twisted in impossible shapes.
He pressed the pencil to a fresh sheet.
For a moment, he considered drawing Ms. Patel as some kind of supervillain with her grading pen as a kind of pole-like weapon.
Then his gaze drifted to the window.
Outside, a crow perched on the fence, its head cocked. He gained an eerie feeling that it was watching him.
Ruben's pencil moved.
***
The final bell rang, a shrill, mechanical sound that sent students flooding into the halls. Ruben shoved his notebook into his bag, ignoring the way Maya's fingers twitched toward him like she wanted to say something.
Don't.
He didn't look at her as he stood, if he didn't notice it then he didn't need to confront it and give her the chance to speak. He slung his bag over one shoulder and started to leave.
He turned to her slightly in acknowledgement to tell her… "You don't have to wait," he muttered, already moving toward the door.
Maya's fingers twitched toward the strap of her bag. "Okay," she said softly, the single word carrying that infuriating lack of judgement that somehow made him feel worse.
Ruben gritted his teeth and shouldered past the other students.
Outside, the sky hung low and heavy, the air was thick with the promise of rain. Ruben kicked at a loose chunk of asphalt, watching it skitter across the pavement before disappearing into the storm drain with a hollow clink.
"Oi. Rubes."
The voice was familiar, laced with the kind of lazy confidence that came from knowing you were the toughest thing on the block. Ruben turned to see Dante and Javi leaning against the chain-link fence, their postures deliberately casual, like predators pretending not to hunt.
Dante pushed off the fence with a grace that belied his size. At eighteen, he carried himself like someone who'd already seen too much, his bleach-blond pompadour slightly mussed, the silver hoop in his nose catching the dull light. His grin was all sharp edges and gold-capped teeth. "Ready for your big day, kid?"
Ruben shrugged, but his fingers tightened around his notebook.
Javi, ever the silent observer, exhaled a stream of imaginary smoke from the unlit cigarette between his lips. His scarred eyebrow arched. "The hell you got there?"
Ruben flipped open the notebook to reveal the crow, its feathers meticulously shaded, the curve of its beak just shy of cruel. The single visible eye seemed to stare right through them.
Dante let out a low whistle, leaning in close enough that Ruben could smell the stale nicotine on his breath. "Damn. That's cool man." He tapped the page with a chipped fingernail. "This is what you're getting?"
"Yeah!" Ruben shook his head. "I just drew it to pass the time in class. I've got more, but this is the best one."
Javi smirked, finally lighting his cigarette with a flick of his Zippo. The flame reflected in his dark eyes for a brief moment before he snapped it shut. "Gonna make it official? After all the pushbacks, you better like what you get."
Ruben met his gaze, he wasn't tense, nor did he feel as hot tempered as he did around these people. He just wanted to go through the process and get it done. "I know."
Dante clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Then lets fucking go."
The tattoo parlor was a dimly lit cave of rebellion, wedged between a pawn shop with barred windows and a liquor store with a flickering neon sign. INK & IRON, the letters spelled out in jagged red script, the "O" burned out so it read more like a command than a name.
The bell above the door jingled weakly as they stepped inside. The air was thick with the acrid tang of antiseptic and something earthier beneath it, ink, sweat and the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense that did little to mask the underlying scents.
Behind the counter there was a woman named Marina, she looked up from her magazine, her elastic blue-streaked hair falling over one heavily lined eye. The serpent tattoo coiled around her throat seemed to shift as she tilted her head, taking in Ruben with a single assessing glance.
"Christ Dante," she drawled, her voice like gravel and smoke. "You bringing me strays now?"
Dante grinned, unrepentant. "C'mon, Marina. Kid knows what he wants."
Marina's gaze flickered to Ruben, her dark eyes unreadable. She held out a hand, the rings on her fingers glinting dully. "Let's see it."
Ruben handed over his notebook, his pulse jumping traitorously as her fingers, calloused and stained with ink, brushed against his.
Marina studied the drawing, her expression giving nothing away. After a long moment, she nodded. "Not bad." She looked up, one eyebrow arched. "You do this?"
Ruben swallowed. His throat suddenly went dry for reasons he couldn't describe. "Yeah."
Marina's lips quivered, just barely. "Alright kid. Where you want it?"
Ruben didn't hesitate. "Left shoulder."
The buzz of the tattoo machine was louder than he'd expected, a persistent, angry whine that set his teeth on edge. Ruben clenched his jaw as Marina wiped his skin with alcohol, the cold sting a fleeting distraction before the needle bit in.
Dante leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching with the detached interest of someone who'd been through this a dozen times before. "You good Rubes?"
Ruben hissed as the needle dragged across his skin, the pain sharp and insistent. "Peachy."
Javi, perched on the arm of a battered couch, lighting another cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. "Kids got a higher pain tolerance than you Dante."
Marina snorted, her focus never wavering from her work. "Higher than yours too."
Ruben ignored them both, his gaze fixed on the mirror across from him. It did sting, it stung a lot, he just didn't want to look like a child. After a few solid moments anyway, he had already gotten used to the sensation.
The outline took shape quickly, the crows body emerging from the stinging. Its wings spread just enough to suggest motion.
Dante tilted his head, considering "Why a crow, anyway?"
Ruben didn't answer right away. He remembered the crow looking up at him from its perch while he was sitting in class, black and still, staring straight at him through glass.
It made something twist in his gut, dark, heavy and ugly.
He had thought of his mother then. Dead.
He blinked hard and shrugged.
"Dunno," he said. "Just thought it looked cool."
Javi exhaled a cloud of smoke, his smirk audible. "Fuckin' dreamer over here. No, a Poet of the highest caliber."
Marina didn't comment, but her hands were steady as she worked, the crow taking on depth and dimension under her practised touch.
When it was done, Ruben stood in front of the mirror, his shoulder throbbing in time with his heartbeat. The crow stared back at him, its eye dark and unblinking, the lines clean and bold against his skin.
Dante slapped him on the back, careful to avoid the fresh ink that he nearly swiped across, his grin was wide and approving. "Looks sick kid."
Javi stubbed out his cigarette, the ember dying with a hiss. He was nodding in what looked like approval too. Ruben wouldn't show it but he was happy… or maybe it was more appropriate to say that he felt lighter.
Marina handed Ruben a sheet of aftercare instructions, her fingers brushing his, just long enough to be deliberate. "Don't scratch it. Don't swim. And for fuck's sake, don't let it get infected unless you change from wanting a bird to wanting a blob."
Ruben nodded, folding the paper into his pocket with more care than he'd shown his notebook earlier.
Dante threw an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward the door. As they had made it out the door, Javi spoke.
"Did you not think of what your dad might say?"
And just like that, the warm and light feeling was gone. Ruben went rigid and Dante was the first to feel it. As soon as he heard Javi speak and the tone he was using he already had a feeling it was going to turn to this.
"I mean the guy already thinks the worst of us, for good reason I'll say. If he sees that tattoo then who knows what'll happen."
"Shut up!" Ruben said coldly.
Javi sighed and turned to him. "I'm just trying to look out…"
"Looking out for me would be denying helping me get this in the first place." I pointed to my shoulder. "But I'm glad you did help me get it. My dad can scream at a wall for all I care. I got it cause I wanted to and it means more than someone like him would even know."
The pavement was quiet. Ruben only noticed how sparse it was when he had stopped speaking.
"I thought you said it meant nothing. And that it just looked cool." Dante said, his voice was smug though, so he knew what he was doing.
Ruben sighed. He wasn't mad. Not at those two. But whenever he even thought of his dad, his thoughts just spiralled into the worst scenarios and outcomes. He only feels anger whenever he thinks of the man.
He would have to go home soon anyway. And him coming home with a tattoo on his shoulder at the age of thirteen was bound to cause an argument. It would be better to be angry at home than out in public anyway.
The streets stretched before Ruben like a film reel slipping out of focus, edges blurred, colours too bright in some places and washed out in others. The late afternoon sun bled gold through the cracks between buildings, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to breathe as he passed.
His sneakers scuffed against the pavement, each step landing with a heaviness that didn't quite match the lightness in his skull. The world tilted slightly, just enough to make him grip the strap of his backpack tighter, his fingers pressing into the fabric as if to hold him in place.
The air smelled of fried food and exhaust, of damp concrete and something sweetly rotten from the overfilled dumpster he passed. He could taste the remnants of smoke on his tongue, acrid and earthy, clinging to the back of his throat.
He wasn't in a hurry.
The high had crested hours ago, leaving behind a hollowed-out buzz, a flickering hum beneath his skin like a dying lightbulb. He could still feel it, the way the world had softened around him earlier, how laughter had bubbled up in his chest for no reason at all, how the pavement had seemed to ripple under his feet like water.
But now, the comedown was a slow, creeping thing, a fog settling into the corners of his vision, dulling the sharpness of everything. His thoughts moved sluggishly, wading through syrup.
He passed the corner store where the clerk always eyed him a little too long, the laundromat with its rattling machines and the old woman who folded her clothes with military routine, the alley where Dante had once shoved a guy into the bricks for looking at him wrong.
The familiarity of it all should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like walking through a diorama, something staged, something he wasn't really part of.
His feet carried him past the bridge.
By the time he reached his street, the sky deepened into a bruised purple, the first stars smudged behind thin clouds. The houses here were narrow, pressed close together like teeth in a jaw, their windows glowing yellow or blue with the light of TV's. His own house sat dark except for the porch light, left on like an afterthought.
He stopped at the foot of the steps, his hand hovering over the rusted railing. The wood beneath his feet was weathered, the paint peeling in long, curling strips. He could hear the muffled sound of the TV inside, the occasional murmur of voices, his father's low rumble, his stepmother's softer reply. The baby was quiet today. Maya was probably holed up in her room, buried in one of her books.
For a long moment, he just stood there, his keys digging into his palm.
The memory came without warning, soft, like a hand brushing against his cheek.
His mother's voice. "You're my brave boy." she had whispered once, her fingers smoothing his curly hair back from his forehead. She had been sitting on the edge of his bed, the lamp casting warm light over her face, her smile tired but real.
She smelled like lavender.
She kept a youthful appearance, but it only got more dreary and tired looking as bottles of her medication continued to pile up in her bathroom cabinet. Even when she finished them, she wouldn't throw the bottles away, instead they would find their way into Ruben's bedroom and on his desk.
This was before the shadows under her eyes darkened into bruises.
She had been patient. Endlessly patient. Even when his father came home late, stinking of liquor and cheap cologne that he just picked up and used before heading out of a store. His mother was patient, even when the shouting started, she would usher Ruben into his room, her hands steady on his shoulders. "It's okay," she'd say, even when it wasn't.
Then the memory twisted.
The crack of skin on skin. His mother's choked gasp. His father's voice, thick with drink and venom. "You think you can talk to me like that!?"
Ruben had been seven. He had stood frozen in the hallway, his fingers curled into fists so tight his nails left half-moons in his palms. His mother had been clutching her cheek, her eyes were wide and wet, but she hadn't cried. Not then. Not in front of him.
Later, he would learn about the money, the savings she had scraped together for a school she wanted him to due to the one he was at being a safety risk as well as the quality in academic effort only getting lower and lower. Not only for that but also doctor's visits she had kept putting off.
All that money was her money, and his father had taken it. Gambled it away in a week. And when she confronted him…
Ruben's breath hitched.
The porch light flickered overhead, throwing his shadow long and thin across the door. His chest ached, a dull, heavy throb behind his ribs. He didn't want to think about this. Didn't want to remember the way she had looked at him that last day, her hollow eyes that told him that she had given up.
The anger rose up in him like bile, hot and sour. He had swallowed it down.
Inside, the TV laughter swelled, then faded. A chair scraped against the floor.
Ruben took a deep breath, the air sharp in his lungs, and turned the key in the lock.
The door groaned as Ruben pushed it open, its hinges protesting like an old man stirring from sleep. The air was thick with the scent of stewed meat and fried plantains, the television casting flickering blue shadows across the walls.
His father sat slumped in his recliner, the dim glow illuminating the deep grooves of his frown, his broad shoulders tense beneath a faded work shirt. His buzz cut was dusted with gray at the temples, his jaw clenched tight enough to betray the storm brewing beneath the surface.
Ruben moved silently, his body still humming with the ghost of the high, his limbs heavy but his thoughts clear. He kept his gaze low, avoiding the inevitable.
"Where you been, boy?" His father's voice was gravel wrapped in silk, deceptively calm, but Ruben knew the undercurrent.
He didn't answer, he had his earphones in so he could play it off as if he just didn't hear him. He kept walking, his dreads swaying slightly with each step.
His stepmother, Adanna, stepped out from the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour, her afro haloed by the warm light behind her. She was softer around the edges than his mother had been, her eyes a warm brown instead of amber, her lips poised to smile even when they didn't. "Ruben," she said gently, "there's food if you're hungry."
Something in her tone made his throat tighten. He kind of hated how much she tried, hated that he couldn't bring himself to spit venom at her the way he wanted to. He gave a stiff nod, the only acknowledgement he could manage.
His father's chair creaked as he leaned forward. "I asked you a question."
Ruben kept moving, his fingers curling into fists at his side.
Then, a hand snagged the back of his shirt, yanking him backward. The fabric stretched, the collar digging into his throat before his father's grip twisted him around. The motion pulled his sleeve down, revealing the fresh ink on his shoulder, the crow, stark and defiant against his skin.
His father's eyes locked onto it. For a second, there was only silence, thick and suffocating. Then…!
"You got a tattoo?" The words were a whip-crack, disbelief and fury tangled together. His grip tightened, fingers pressing into Ruben's arm hard enough to bruise. "You're thirteen, boy. Who the hell let you do this?"
Ruben yanked free, his pulse roaring in his ears. "None of your business."
Adanna hovered in the doorway, her flour-dusted hands pressed to her lips, her eyes wide.
His father stood, his shadow swallowing Ruben whole. "You think you're grown? Sneaking out, coming back whenever you feel it, hanging around those thugs…!"
"They're not thugs!" Ruben snapped back.
"Then what are they? Good influences? You think I don't know what you're doing out there? I used to be a child like you too!" His father's voice dropped, low and dangerous. "You think I don't smell it on you? See the way your eyes look half-dead some days?"
Ruben's skin prickled. He didn't care. He just wanted to go up to his room.
His father stepped closer, his breath hot with the faint tang of beer he'd been nursing. "You're going down a path that only ends one way, boy. Dead or in jail. And you'll only be a bad influence on your brother."
Something inside Ruben snapped.
"Isaiah," he spat, the name of the baby brother was bitter on his tongue. "You mean Isaiad right? The one who gets to grow up with this version of you?" He gestured wildly at the man in front of him, the sober, present, fake version. "The one who won't ever have to see his dad come home drunk and screaming? Who won't have to watch his mom get hit?"
The words hung in the air like smoke.
His father flinched, actually flinched, his eyes darting to Adanna, who had gone very still.
Ruben barreled on, his voice raw. "At least Maya and Isaiah get a dad who knows how to pretend to give a shit. At least they won't have to grow up with an abusive drunk."
The slap came fast, a starburst of pain across his cheek. Ruben stumbled back, his vision swimming, the taste of copper blooming on his tongue.
Then… instinct took over.
His fist connected with his father's jaw with a sickening crack. A crack of his knuckle. The man still staggered back, in shock more so than any pain. He lunged, grabbing Ruben by the front of his shirt and slamming him against the wall. A framed photo rattled to the floor, the glass shattering.
"Stop it!" Adanna's voice cut through the chaos, sharp as shattered glass. She wedged herself between them, her hands pressed against his father's chest. "Enough!"
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Ruben's chest heaved, his cheek throbbing, his knuckles stinging. His father's breath came in ragged bursts, his grip still twisted in Ruben's shirt.
Then, slowly, his father let go.
Ruben didn't wait. He shoved past them both, his boots crunching over broken glass as he stormed through the kitchen and out the back door. The night air hit him like a slap, cold and bracing.
The yard was small, overgrown at the edges, the fence sagging in places. Ruben didn't stop. He vaulted over it, landing hard on the other side, his knees buckling slightly from the impact. The alley beyond was dark, the only light coming from the flickering street lamp at the far end.
He ran.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. The world blurred around him, the cracked pavement, the graffiti-strewn walls, the distant wall of a siren. He didn't know where he was going. Didn't care.
All he knew was that he didn't want to go back.
The river beneath the bridge was black and slow, swallowing the moonlight in thick, oily ripples. Ruben crouched on the slick rocks near the bank, his knees pulled to his chest, the cold seeping through his jeans. The air smelled of wet stone and rotting weeds, of things left too long in the dark.
Above him, the bridge loomed, its rusted railings like the ribs of some long-dead beast.
He could still feel her arms around him when he stayed still like this and started thinking back.
That morning had been so quiet. His mother had woken him up before dawn, her fingers gentle but insistent. He'd grumbled, half asleep, embarrassed at being carried at his age, but she'd lifted him anyway, his legs dangling over her hip like when he was small.
The streets had been empty, the sky still bruised with the night.
And then…
The railing against his back. Her whispers in his ear, promising that it would be quick.
The memory hit him like a fist to the throat. He gasped, his fingers digging into his arms hard enough to leave crescents in his skin. The water below seemed to pulse, to breathe, to watch him.
I should have died that day.
The thought was sharp, it couldn't even be drowned out by the fog clinging to his veins. If he had known, known how hollow the world would become, how every breath would taste like ash, he would have let the water take him. At least then, he wouldn't be alone.
"Ruben!"
The voice shattered the silence like fallen glass.
Ruben didn't turn. He knew the sound of his father's footsteps, especially when he was angry. The way it crushed the leaves on the ground as he mindlessly stomped, the way he carried himself over the concrete and water. Heavy footsteps crunched over the gravel, coming closer.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Ruben scowled, his throat tight. "Fuck off!"
His father grabbed his shoulder, wrenching him around. The man's face was shadowed, his buzz cut silvered by the weak light, his breath sharp with the sour tang of beer. "Stop acting like a little baby," he spat. "You're my eldest. You're a man now. Start acting like it."
The words were sandpaper on Ruben's nerves. His throat burned. His vision blurred.
"Hypocrite," he hissed.
His father stiffened. "What did you say?!"
Ruben wrenched free, his voice raw. "Before Adanna, before this act, you were worse than me. A lazy drunk. A coward who lived off my Mom's back while she worked herself to death." His chest heaved. "And now you wanna stand here and lecture me like you're some kind of good father?"
His father's face twisted. For a second, Ruben thought he'd hit him again. But then…
"I was hoping," his father said slowly, "that we could move past it. With time."
Ruben laughed. "Move past it? You won't even acknowledge it. You just pretend it never even happened. Like she never happened." His voice cracked. "Like you weren't the reason she jumped."
His father's jaw tightened. "She made her own choices, Ruben. And I've spent every day since then regretting mine. But I won't forgive her for trying to take you with her."
The world tilted.
Ruben's breath left him in a rush. His hands shook. His bones shook.
"You…" his voice was a whisper. "You don't get to say that."
His father reached for him. "I'm sorry…"
"Shove it!" Ruben stumbled back, his heel catching on a rock. His father lurched forward, grabbing at his arm, but the momentum sent them both crashing to the ground. Ruben landed on top, his knees digging into his father's ribs.
Something inside of him snapped.
The first punch landed with a wet crack. His father's head jerked to the side, blood blooming at his lip. The second hit his cheekbone. The third, his nose. Ruben couldn't stop. His fists were pistons, his breath sobs.
"It's your fault!" he screamed. "You made her do it!"
His father's hands came up, grabbing at his wrists, but Ruben twisted free. His fingers closed around a rock, jagged and had its weight to it. He didn't think. He just brought it down.
Once. A sickening thud.
Twice. A gasp.
Three times. Four.
The world narrowed to the sound of impact, to the warm spray on his face, to the way his father's body jerked beneath him like a fish on a hook.
Then…
Silence.
Ruben panted, his vision swimming. The rock slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull clack.
His father wasn't moving.
No. There was a twitch. A faint, shuddering breath. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and red, seeping into the cracks between rocks. His father's face was…
Ruben gagged.
He scrambled back, his hands slipping in the wet. His father's abdomen was split open on a sharp stone, the wound glistening. His face was…
Oh God.
Ruben's stomach heaved. He retched, bile burning his throat.
Voices. Shouting.
His head whipped up. Flashlights cut through the dark, beams swinging wildly.
"HEY!"
Ruben's vision flickers… black, then light, then black again. His limbs were lead. His heart beat like a jackhammer.
Hands grabbed him, yanking him upright. Radios crackled. Someone was screaming something into one of those radios. Calling for medics.
"Jesus Christ…"
"Call an ambulance!"
"Kid, put your hands…"
BLACK.
LIGHT.
The cold bite of handcuffs were felt around his wrists. The slam of a car door.
He was in a cop car. He was in cuffs, he was arrested. Ruben was going to prison. And his dad might be dead.
The seatbelt cut into Ruben's chest as the engine rumbled to life. His hands, cuffed and limp in his lap, were still streaked with rust-coloured smears, his father's blood.
The thought made him want to scream. Should have made him claw at the doors until his fingers broke.
But instead, a terrifying calm settled over him, thick as fog.
He's gone.
The realization slithered through the cracks in his mind. No more shouting. No more fists. No more pretending. A sob tore through his throat, involuntarily, but even as the tears blurred his vision, part of him relished the silence.
Isaiah would never know that version of their father. Maya wouldn't have to tiptoe around his rage.
The sirens wailed. Ruben slumped against the window, his breath fogging the glass. He didn't fight. Didn't beg.
The cop car hummed beneath him, the vibration of the engine travelling up through the seat like a dull, mechanical heartbeat. Ruben's head lolled against the window, the glass cool against his temple. His breath fogged the pane in uneven bursts, each one dissolving as quickly as it appeared.
The officer in the driver's seat, a broad-shouldered man with a salt and pepper buzz cut, glanced at him in the rearview mirror. His eyes were tired, the kind of tired that came from seeing too much of the worst in people.
"You alright back there?" he asked, voice gruff but not unkind.
Ruben didn't answer. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth.
The cop sighed, adjusting his grip on the wheel.
"...Headache," he muttered out through a dry throat.
The cop nodded, like that explained everything. Maybe it did.
Silence settled again, thick and suffocating. Ruben's vision flickered, black, then light, then black again, before snapping back to clarity. He blinked, disoriented. Shock, he told himself. It was just the shock of the situation.
But then his thoughts spiraled, tumbling like stones down a cliffside.
Prison.
The word echoed in his skull. He didn't know how long he'd get. Years, probably. And after? Where would he even go? Adanna wasn't his mother. Maya wasn't his sister. They had no reason to keep him around. Isaiah was just a baby, he'd grow up with only vague, half-formed memories of Ruben, if any at all.
He closed his eyes.
What do I even want?
Nothing came to mind. Not a home. Not a future. Not even revenge. Just nothing.
He opened his eyes again, staring at the passing streetlights, their glow smearing across the window like dying stars.
I wish there was a reset.
The thought was childish, but he was one. And for a second he allowed himself to imagine it. Waking up in his old bed, his mother humming in the kitchen, his father… Ruben had only seen his father act any bit normal with his new family, and he just can't see him doing the same with his mother.
There was no normal. There never had been.
He stopped wishing.
The car moved, but Ruben didn't. He was numb, a statue of flesh and bone, his cuffed hands resting limply in his lap. The world outside blurred, colours bleeding together into a meaningless swirl.
Then…
Movement.
To his left, through the window, a truck barrelled toward them, its headlights blinding.
It was wrong.
The truck was silent. No engine roar. No screech of brakes. Just a monstrous, hulking thing, hurtling toward them in eerie quiet.
Ruben's breath caught.
Time slowed.
The impact came like a fist from God.
Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The world twisted, like it was coming to an end. Folding in on itself in a cacophony of sound and motion.
Then…
Black.
The first thing Ruben noticed was the light, soft, golden, filtering through gauzy white curtains that fluttered beside an open window. The air smelled clean, tinged with something herbal and faintly medicinal.
For a moment, he thought he was in a hospital. But the walls weren't the same as any hospital he had been in, they were smooth, pale stone instead of sterile white, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when he blinked.
He sat up slowly, his body strangely weightless, as if the crash had never happened. His hands, uncuffed, gripped the edge of the bed, his fingers pressing into crisp linen. He was dressed in loose, unfamiliar clothes, a simple tunic and trousers of muted gray. His dreads were still there, but his piercings were gone.
And there was another boy.
Curly hair, a shade lighter than his own, tousled against his pillow. Rich brown skin, a beauty mark beneath his left eye, ears pierced but bare. He looked peaceful, asleep, but Ruben's gut twisted, he didn't know him.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
Near the ceiling, a small, orb-like object hovered, its surface shimmering like liquid mercury. It had no eyes, no face, but Ruben felt like it was watching him. Before he could react, it darted out of the room, slipping through the door like a ghost.
Minutes later, the door opened again.
A woman stepped inside, her presence calm and deliberate. She was tall, her frame draped in a long, deep-blue coat that brushed the floor, its edge embroidered with silver thread in swirling, celestial patterns.
Beneath it, she wore a high-collared tunic and fitted trousers, both in shades of ivory, the fabric crisp and immaculate.
Her skin was a rich mahogany, her hair braided into a single, thick plait that fell over one shoulder, threaded with delicate silver charms that chimed softly as she moved.
But it was her eyes that struck him, violet, almost luminous, like twilight given form.
She smiled, clipboard in hand. "Ah, you're awake. Good news, you and your brother are perfectly unharmed."
Ruben's brow furrowed. He pointed at the boy. "I don't know him."
The woman giggled, a light, musical sound. "My mistake." She adjusted her glasses, the lenses catching the light. "You were both found by Dario Kosta. He's quite eager to meet you."
Dario Kosta. The name meant nothing to Ruben. The way she said it though, like it should have weight, it was someone Ruben should have at least heard of.
He glanced around again, half-expecting police to storm in. Then the memory of the crash hit him, the silent truck, the impact, the black.
His hands shook. "The crash…"
"No crashes here," she said gently. "You were both found by a lake in Vaelmoor Forest."
What the…? Ruben had never heard of a forest with that name in the area he lived in. None of this was making any sense.
Before he could speak to gather more information, the woman tilted her head. "May I have your name?"
"Ruben. Ruben Okoro." Even with everything that was happening he was happy that he never had his dad's name. !
The thought of his dad… his dad may be dead and he still only thinks the worst.
A rustle came from the other bed. The boy rolled onto his side, his dark brown eyes sharp and alert. He hadn't been asleep at all.
"Corbin Monet," he said, voice rough but deliberate. His gaze flickered to the woman, unimpressed. "Where the hell am I?"
She giggled again. "I wondered when you would speak."
Corbin scowled, but before he could retort, a hush fell over the hallway outside. There was an odd feeling that entered not only the room, but the whole building.
Both Ruben and Corbin didn't even realise that they were involuntarily shaking.
"Ah, that must be him."
The woman spoke as the door swung open.
Ruben remembered the name she spoke of prior.
Dario Kosta.
The man who entered was unlike anyone Ruben had ever seen before. Towering, broad-shouldered, his presence filled the room like a storm contained in human form. His skin was sun-kissed and weathered, the complexion of someone who had spent lifetimes under open skies. His hair was stark white, cropped short, a striking contrast against his rugged features. But it was his eyes that held Ruben frozen, oak-brown, piercing, alight with a vitality that defied his age.
He grinned, arms crossed and the air itself seemed to hum around him.
The woman sighed. "I'm surprised. You two truly don't recognize him? What barn could you have been brought up in" She gestured, as if presenting a marvel. "This is Dario Kosta, the strongest Paladin in history. The 'Star Wished Upon By Humanity.'"