The diner hadn’t changed in decades. Greasy tile floors, faded red booths, and a menu overhead with sun-bleached photos of food that looked more like abstract art than meals. It was the kind of place that time had politely ignored.

  Harlin loved it.

  “Best processed cheese in the tri-zone,” he declared as he pushed open the glass door, the bell above it jingling weakly. “If you don’t leave with a stomachache, they’ve failed you.”

  Kael hesitated at the threshold. “I’ll just wait in the car.”

  Harlin turned, frowning. “Why?”

  “I’m broke.”

  Harlin barked a laugh. “You think I raised Annie on air and encouragement? You’re eating. No debates. And you’re getting the big fries.”

  Kael didn’t argue.

  They ordered and found a booth near the back, the plastic seats sticking slightly against the backs of their uniforms. Harlin sat opposite them, drink in one hand, gesturing with a fry in the other like it was a conductor’s baton.

  “So,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You two ever gonna tell me when the relationship started, or do I have to start a betting pool with the staff?”

  Annabelle groaned. “Dad, not now.”

  Kael stared at his tray, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  Harlin grinned wider. “What? You two finish each other’s silences. That’s advanced-level coupledom.”

  Annabelle lobbed a fry at him. He caught it in his mouth without blinking.

  Kael smiled. Not forced. Not hollow. Just soft. Real.

  It felt good.

  The moment shattered with the violent clang of the diner door.

  A man stumbled in, wild-eyed, breathing like he’d run through a storm. One hand glowed with erratic energy, flickering and unstable.

  “All of you!” he shouted. “On the ground! Now!”

  Chaos.

  A scream. A tray clattered to the floor. Chairs scraped. Someone dropped behind the counter, knocking over a metal rack.

  Harlin stood slowly, hands raised. His voice dropped, calm but firm. “Easy now, friend. Nobody’s gonna—”

  The man turned toward him, hand twitching, sparks coiling around his wrist.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Kael didn’t move.

  He felt it.

  Not fear. Not adrenaline.

  Something else.

  Pressure.

  A presence. Heavy. Watching. Ancient.

  Annabelle moved before he could. Her Imprint flared for a second—a soft snap of darkness—and she was in front of him, arms spread.

  The man raised his hand to fire.

  Kael blinked.

  And something answered.

  It was silent.

  Not the silence of a still room. The silence of space. Of void. Of vacuum.

  The man’s eyes met Kael’s.

  And his world shattered.

  His body jerked.

  His eyes bled.

  Blood welled up and poured from his tear ducts, thick and fast, trailing down his cheeks. His nostrils filled. His mouth opened wide, and crimson spilled out, bubbling over his chin. From his ears, too—a full unraveling.

  He dropped the weapon, gurgling.

  Then he screamed.

  “MAKE IT STOP! HE’S IN MY HEAD! GET HIM OUT—”

  And then even that was gone.

  Kael saw more.

  He wasn’t in the diner anymore.

  He was inside something else. A broken window of the man’s mind—or something deeper.

  The bone walls came first, spirals etched deep into ivory, pulsing faintly as if the material itself breathed. They moved in patterns Kael’s brain refused to track, slipping just out of alignment with sense. Then the books appeared, endless shelves of them, their pages fluttering open with a wind that had no source. They hissed as they turned. Screamed softly. The kind of sound that didn’t register through ears, only memory.

  Above it all loomed a sky that wasn’t a sky. Black flame curled across its surface like ink dropped in water. A surgical table stood beneath it, lit by nothing Kael could see. The man—the robber—lay there, split open, yet alive. Fully conscious. Trembling.

  And Calderon stood over him.

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

  He only watched.

  His eyes didn’t burn, but the shape of them carved truth into the space around them.

  Then came the voices.

  Not one. Not many. An uncountable chorus—whispers in layered languages, none spoken by any living mouth.

  They said nothing Kael could repeat.

  But he understood.

  He understood everything.

  Just long enough to forget what it felt like to be human.

  Then the spiral reached down—slow, careful, almost gentle. It wasn’t cruel. It was certain. It moved like gravity.

  And the man broke.

  His consciousness folded, cracked, and spun.

  Then everything snapped.

  Kael gasped, and the world returned.

  The man lay in a heap on the floor, twitching.

  Eyes wide.

  Spiraled.

  No one spoke.

  Kael stood in front of Annabelle. Hands shaking.

  She looked up at him. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

  Harlin hadn’t moved.

  Sirens approached. Red-blue lights streaked the greasy tiles.

  Paramedics arrived and didn’t ask questions. One glance at the man, and they moved like they were handling a bomb.

  “He’s not dead,” one of them murmured. “But his neural map’s scrambled. Like someone pressed reset and overwrite at the same time.”

  Kael didn’t speak.

  Didn’t blink.

  A medic approached him. “You were near him when it happened?”

  Kael nodded.

  “He said a name. Before the collapse. You know it?”

  Kael’s jaw clenched. “What name?”

  The medic scrolled his slate.

  “Calderon.”

  Kael said nothing.

  Back in the car, the silence pressed down like a second skin.

  Harlin drove.

  Annabelle stared out the window.

  Kael watched his own reflection.

  It blinked a moment late.

  In the mirror, he saw Annabelle glance up. Then:

  “Kael?”

  “Yeah?”

  Her voice was quiet. Unsure.

  “What... what was that?”

  He wanted to tell her he didn’t know.

  Wanted to believe it.

  But something still whispered.

  Still turned.

  “Next time, don’t hesitate.”

  Kael turned to the window.

  In the clouds, spirals were forming.

  He closed his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  He was lying.