Elion Hayes was one second away from getting his face ripped off.

No exaggeration. No dramatic overstatement. Just a cold, horrifying reality.

A seven-foot-tall ape-like creature loomed over him, showing its sharp teeth and bringing its claws down toward his head. Its glowing yellow eyes focused on his throat, and it smelled like a mix of rotten animals and smoke.

Elion barely had time to think, let alone scream.

To his right, Jordan Walker—his best friend and partner in terrible life choices—was swinging a metal pipe like his life depended on it. Which, fun fact, it did.

To his left, Ronan Cross, the cowboy who they just met, was busy reloading his revolver one-handed, completely unfazed by the horror show happening around him.

“Ronan!” Elion yelled, desperately backpedaling.

The cowboy snapped the chamber shut, spun the revolver, and fired in one clean motion.

BANG.

The beast-man’s head snapped backward. Its body collapsed into the alley like a dropped bag of bricks.

Elion exhaled sharply, heart hammering. “Little close, don’t you think?”

Ronan tipped his hat. “Still breathing, aren’t you?”

Elion didn’t have time to argue because two more beast-men were already charging.

They were too human to be animals, too monstrous to be men.

They moved wrong—too fast, too smooth like their bones weren’t connected right. Their heads twitched unnaturally, sniffing the air, their too-wide grins stretching like they knew something Elion didn’t.

Bodies hunched like apes, fur rippling over twisted muscles. Their fingers ended in black claws sharp enough to carve through concrete. And their faces—Sun Wukong’s nightmare cousins—were frozen in eerie, too-wide grins.

Elion had exactly one second to remember everything Ronan had taught them less than an hour ago.

Rule One: Don’t let them touch you. Poison claws. Bad.

Rule Two: Their reflexes are insane. Swing too early, you miss. Swing too late, you die.

Rule Three: If all else fails—pray.

Because right now?

Everything else was failing. Elion wondered how did his life take such a turn.

Six hours ago, he was just a guy trying to survive another boring shift. No life-or-death chases, no monster attacks, no cryptic cowboys dragging him into interdimensional problems.

Six hours ago, his life was perfectly normal.

***

New Orleans was never quiet.

At night, the city feels alive. Cars honk, neon lights buzz, and street performers sing jazz for tourists. The tourists pretend to enjoy the music before moving on to the next bar.

Elion Hayes barely noticed any of it.

He walked out of Good Books—a bookstore and pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt. The air smelled like rain and fried shrimp, heavy with humidity that stuck to his skin. His backpack hung over one shoulder and felt too light for the weight he was carrying.

Above the Mississippi, the sky threw its usual overdramatic tantrum—gold bleeding into purple, clouds streaked like someone had taken a paintbrush to the horizon.

People always said sunsets in New Orleans were magic.

Elion didn’t even glance at it.

Sunsets were like opportunities—beautiful for some, constantly slipping away for others.

And for him? Life felt like an endless game of catch-up.

He fixed his bag strap and blended into the crowd on the sidewalk. He moved with the rhythm of the city. He never rushed or slowed down; he was always at pace with the surrounding chaos.

It helped that he looked like someone worth noticing.

At five foot ten, with a lean but defined build, he had the kind of athletic frame that made people assume he worked out—which was only half true. His life kept him in shape whether he liked it or not.

His sharp jawline and high cheekbones could have made him conventionally good-looking, but he didn’t have the time—or the patience—to care.

His black curls were always messy, always falling into his deep brown eyes, making him look like he’d either just rolled out of bed or had been running on zero sleep for days.

Some people could effortlessly own that “reckless and charming” look.

Elion? He just looked exhausted.

Not that he cared.

He had bigger things to worry about.

Some guy in a suit nearly shoulder-checked him into next week, sprinting across the crosswalk like his entire life depended on catching a bus.

Elion barely reacted. New Orleans had two speeds: fast and “good luck.”

A cyclist shot past so close he could have reached out and stolen the guy’s backpack.

A woman with AirPods power-walked through him, yelling at someone named Gary about a “colossal failure in the spreadsheets.”

A guy balancing three iced coffees with absolutely zero spatial awareness was on a direct collision course.

Elion dodged them all without breaking stride.

This was how life worked. No pauses. No space to breathe. Just keep moving, or you’ll get flattened.

His reflection flashed in a shop window. The black hoodie. The tired posture. The restless eyes that never stopped moving. He looked the same as always.

But sometimes, when he really stopped and stared, it felt like he was looking at a stranger.

Didn’t recognize that guy.

Didn’t want to.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Just like that, everything changed. A feeling tightened in his chest before he even checked the screen. Because deep down, he already knew—this wasn’t good news.

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Elion barely pulled his phone out of his pocket before the buzzing stopped. The screen lit up.

Six unread messages.

A few were from his Mom.

His stomach tightened.

Mom never texted this much unless something was wrong.

He swiped open the notifications, scanned the messages, and then played the first one. It was a voice message.

MOM (Voice Message): “Elion, I need you to talk to Liam when you get home.”

Elion paused mid-step.

Liam?

He immediately tapped play. His mother’s voice came through, soft but tight with frustration.

MOM (Voice Message): “He got into another fight. You know how he is. I tried talking to him, but he was not listening. I need your help to handle this before it gets worse.”

Elion sighed.

Liam had been picking fights for as long as he could throw a punch. Most of the time, it was just stupid posturing, a bad habit. But sometimes? It was worse.

Still, this wasn’t an emergency. His Mom would’ve called if it were.

He typed out a reply.

ELION: I’ll talk to him when I get home.

A few seconds later, another message popped up.

MOM (Voice Message): Okay. Can you grab some groceries first? The usual. And get extra eggs this time—your brother keeps inhaling them like they don’t cost money.

Elion smirked, shaking his head.

At least she sounded calmer now.

ELION: Got it.

That was enough for now. Liam’s fight could wait. Elion needed a place to clear his head and maybe... take a break from his responsibilities for a few hours. His plate was full at the moment.

He took a deep breath, trying his best to forget everything. He put his phone in his pocket and kept walking, letting the busy city lead him.

He walked without thinking as his mind wandered, troubled by worries he could not shake off. Then—BEEEEP!

“Hey! Watch it, kid!”

A grey car zoomed past, the tires slicing through the evening air like a blade.

Elion stopped dead, heart hammering. “I’m sorry!” he blurted, raising a hand in apology—not that the driver stuck around to care.

He sighed and kept walking, that familiar exhaustion settling into his bones. Working wasn’t the issue. He could handle long shifts, rude customers, and even late-night inventory restocks.

The real problem? No matter how much effort he put in, he was just getting by. No savings. No progress. Just an endless cycle of study, work, sleep, repeat.

As he turned onto one of the streets, a familiar voice cut through the evening air.

“Elion! Hold up, man!”

He turned to see Jordan jogging toward him, looking effortlessly put together—like he hadn’t just sprinted down the block. Before he could react, Jordan fell into step beside him—all effortless movement and stupid confidence.

Jordan Walker had that kind of energy that made people look twice. He walked through the city confidently, taking long strides. His shoulders were relaxed, and his hands were in his pockets as if he had all the time in the world.

Elion was sharp and quiet, while Jordan was laid-back but always kept up with everyone.

He was taller by an inch or two, built like an athlete who made everything look effortless. His hoodie was only half-zipped over a fitted shirt, the sleeves pushed up as if he had just rolled them up without thinking.

Jordan’s golden-blonde hair practically reflected the streetlights, like he’d been personally blessed by the sun. He never had to put in much effort—his life seemed like a series of great moments. A few loose strands of hair framed his sharp face—he had high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and eyes that always looked playful.

Well, to cut it short, Jordan wasn’t just cool. He was the guy who could talk his way into anything—and out of everything.

“Hey,” Elion said, managing a small smile as Jordan caught up.

Jordan ran a hand through his hair like he was in a shampoo ad. “I thought you went home already,” he said, still catching his breath. “I checked the bookstore, but you weren’t there.”

“I left on time,” Elion explained. “On my way to grab some groceries for my mom.”

Jordan tilted his head. “Groceries, huh? Mind if I tag along? I was about to grab a coffee, but priorities.”

Elion shrugged. “Sure. Just don’t slow me down.”

Jordan grinned. “Please. I should be saying that to you.”

As they walked, the usual noise of the city faded, replaced by something different—a low, buzzing energy, like the moment before a storm hit.

Up ahead, a soccer court—well-known as The Cage by the locals—loomed under the streetlights.

Elion’s eyes were fixated on the court. It had been years.

It wasn’t just any soccer court. This was the spot. No refs, no soft turf, no mercy. Just rusted fences, cracked pavement, and bragging rights that lasted until the next game.

Normally, the place would be alive—shouts, scuffed sneakers, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a ball bouncing between players.

But tonight?

Dead silent.

Instead of a match, a group of guys stood in a circle, talking in hushed voices, their expressions tense. The way they kept glancing around told Elion this wasn’t about who gets to play goalkeeper.

Jordan noticed, too. “Huh. The Cage is never this quiet.”

Elion nodded. “Yeah. Either they lost the ball… or short of players.”

Before they could walk past, someone spotted them.

"Yo, Jordan!"

A figure broke away from the group—Raymond Ortega. Built like a tank and pretty fast for his size, he was known for making sure you felt it when he tackled you.

He jogged over, grinning like Jordan had just saved his life. “Dude, perfect timing. We’re short two players. You in?”

Jordan smirked. “Man, I haven’t stretched in, like, a week.”

Ray laughed before scoffing. “You don’t need to stretch even after if it’s a year. You’re Jordan.”

He then looked around and said, “We still need a player.”

Jordan shrugged, clearly accepting this as a fact. Then he nudged his head toward Elion. “What about him?”

Raymond turned, giving Elion a quick once-over before looking back at Jordan.

“Uh… who’s your friend? Is he good?”

Elion blinked. Well, that was expected.

It had been years since he last played here or since he participated in high school soccer tournaments, but he didn’t think he’d been wiped from history.

Faces changed. Players came and went. He got it. But they had played a few times before. At least, remember him.

“Elion,” he said flatly. Hoping that could trigger Raymond’s memory.

Raymond squinted like he was trying to connect to a memory that didn’t exist. “Elion?” He tested the name, then shook his head. “Sorry, man. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

The other guys in the group started whispering, trying to place him. "Nah. Sorry, man. Never heard of you."

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Never heard of you?

Elion started to feel like he was in a movie where everyone forgot a character. Like everyone’s memory about him had been wiped.

Jordan, meanwhile, just stood there, grinning.

Elion side-eyed him. “Something funny?”

Jordan’s smirk widened. “Nope. Just waiting.”

Raymond exhaled through his nose. “Look, no offense, but we really need players who can actually hold their own. No rookies.”

One of the guys muttered, “Especially tonight.”

Elion caught that but let it slide. What’s so special about tonight?

Before he could ask, Jordan clapped him on the shoulder. “Rookies? Bro, if you think I have a shot at going pro, you should’ve seen this guy back in the day.”

Silence.

A few players exchanged looks. Others raised their eyebrows, now giving Elion a little more attention.

Raymond arched an eyebrow. “For real?”

Jordan nodded, still completely unfazed. “For real.”

Elion flexed his fingers. It had been a while, but muscle memory was a stubborn thing. His body still remembered the game, even if these guys didn’t remember him. “Guess we’ll see,” he said.

In soccer, he had his share of pride and confidence.

Ray studied him for a beat, then shrugged. “Alright. If Jordan’s vouching for you, you get a shot. But if you suck, you’re off the court in five minutes.”

Elion smirked. “Fair enough.”

As they walked toward the court, Elion felt it—the weight of doubt. Nobody remembered him. Nobody expected anything. But they were about to.

Oh, they were about to.

“You okay with this?” Jordan asked. “Will your Mom be waiting for the groceries?”

“No problem. Those are for tomorrow,” Elion replied as he pulled the red bib over his head, the fabric smelling like it had been marinated in sweat for the past year.

He wrinkled his nose. "Man, when was the last time they washed these?"

Jordan, already in his bib, grinned. "Pretty sure these things are self-cleaning—you know, in a ‘let the next person’s sweat cancel out the last guy’s’ kind of way.”

“Fantastic,” Elion muttered, adjusting the straps.

Despite being street soccer, the setup was weirdly organized. Normally, The Cage ran 3-on-3 or 5-on-5—fast-paced, high-energy, nonstop chaos. But tonight?

9-a-side.

Which was practically a full team, at least by The Cage’s standards.

The court was big enough to handle it, sure, but it was rare for Elion to see this many people playing at once.

He glanced at the opponents in their white bibs. A few familiar faces jumped out—guys he hadn’t seen in years. Some were former players from his old days here, others just regulars at The Cage.

Interesting.

Jordan jogged up beside him, rolling his shoulders. "You look like you're thinking too hard."

Elion nodded toward the other team. "Recognize any of them?"

Jordan followed his gaze, his eyes scanning the white bibs. Then, he let out a low whistle.

“Oh yeah. Couple of real ballers over there. That guy—” he nodded toward a lanky dude adjusting his shin guards— “is Marcus. Crazy footwork. And that dude? Malik. I swear he has a sixth sense for interceptions. If he’s marking you, good luck getting a clean pass off.”

Elion hummed. "Yeah, I remember Marcus. I played against him years ago."

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "Do you remember how that went?"

Elion smirked. "Let’s just say I left him with trust issues."

Jordan laughed. "Man, I cannot wait for this."

Elion laughed. Same here. He cannot wait, too.