Chicago, Illinois

———Dylan———

My head feels like it's about to split open. Hunched over the sink in the school bathroom, I grip the porcelain like it's the only thing keeping me upright. The pounding in my skull turns into a roar, and my vision begins to blur.

Then it hits.

A ring—huge, circular, fractured. Cracks spider across its surface as a sound, low and haunting, cuts through the air. A bell, tolling over rolling hills. From the shattered ring, a massive cloaked figure emerges, its form shrouded in darkness. It moves toward me, fast and menacing. But it's stopped—a girl steps in its path, her hand alight with crackling lightning. Her power radiates like a storm.

The vision fades as quickly as it came, and I shout, the pain sharp and hot as blood drips from my nose into the sink.

"Rough night, Dylan?"

The voice snaps me back. I glance up, catching my reflection in the mirror—nose bleeding, face pale—and then turn to see Keegan leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He flicks his lighter open and closed, the tiny flame dancing with each flick.

I grab a wad of paper towels and press it to my nose. "You could say that."

He raises an eyebrow. "Still haven't gotten those migraines checked out? It's been, what, two weeks now? And now nosebleeds? Dude, that's not normal."

"Could be worse," I mutter, turning back to the sink.

How am I supposed to explain this to anyone? That my headaches come with visions and delusions? Any doctor would probably think I was nuts—or worse, that I was making it up for attention.

Keegan shrugs, flicking his lighter again. "So, I guess this means you're not coming to the Rusty Bucket punk show tonight?"

"Not unless I want to pass out in the middle of the mosh pit. I can barely stand."

"Fair enough," he says, nodding. "Guess I'm flying solo. Your mom still cool with me crashing at your place after, though?"

"Yeah, just don't pull that shit you did last week. She thought you were a burglar, and she was pissed."

Keegan laughs, shoving the lighter into his pocket. "Hey, that wasn't my fault. I drank too much at that party. Skateboarding home plastered didn't seem like a smart move."

"Well, maybe don't drink as much tonight," I say, shaking my head.

He smirks. "Well, maybe go see a doctor. Then next time, you'll be there to stop me."

I chuckle despite myself. Turning back to the mirror, I shove a fresh wad of paper towels up my nose. Keegan takes one look and bursts out laughing, doubling over until he's coughing.

"Please tell me you're not walking around school like that."

"Bruh, what am I supposed to do?" I shout, laughing along with him. For a moment, the pounding in my head eases, and it almost feels like things are normal again.

We push open the bathroom door and step into the hallway, the harsh fluorescent lights casting their usual pale glow. The echoes of distant chatter and the occasional slamming locker fill the air as we weave through the thinning crowd of students.

Keegan walks beside me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. "You know, we could just skip the rest of the day," he says casually, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "I mean, it's not like you're in any condition to sit through pre-calc."

I roll my eyes but can't help smirking. "You just don't want to go to history."

"Can you blame me? Mr. Rainer's voice could put an insomniac to sleep." Keegan grins, nudging my arm. "Come on, let's bail. Rusty Bucket starts late anyway—we can grab some food or something. My treat."

I shake my head. "Nah, I just want to get home. Besides, my mom would kill me if she found out I skipped again."

Keegan shrugs. "Suit yourself, but you look like you're about to keel over. If anyone asks, I'll say I dragged you out of here for your own good."

We reach the front doors of the school, the crisp afternoon air visible through the glass. Keegan pulls one open and gestures dramatically. "After you, my fragile and nosebleeding companion."

"Thank you my good sir," I say in a British accent, stepping outside.

The cool air hits me like a slap, a welcome change from the stuffy, crowded hallways. Keegan falls into step beside me, the faint smell of smoke clinging to him as he pulls out his lighter again. The rhythmic flick-flick of the flame is oddly comforting as we make our way across the parking lot.

The sky is gray, clouds thick and heavy with the promise of rain. A fitting backdrop for the weirdness rattling around in my brain. Keegan, as usual, doesn't seem bothered by any of it.

"You sure you're good?" he asks after a moment, his tone more serious.

I glance at him, surprised. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Keegan narrows his eyes like he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push. "Alright. Just... don't pass out on me or something. I'm not dragging your ass home."

I laugh lightly. "Deal."

We step off the curb, heading toward the sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, the bell rings, signaling the start of the next class. But we're already gone.

Keegan and I walk in silence for a while, the rhythmic sound of our sneakers on the pavement blending with the distant hum of cars passing by. The gray clouds overhead start to spit out a light drizzle, but neither of us makes a move to speed up or take cover. It's refreshing, in a way—cool against the pounding in my head.

"You know," Keegan starts, flicking his lighter once more before slipping it into his pocket, "if you keep ditching like this, people are gonna start thinking we're trouble."

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "Start thinking? You've been trouble since the day I met you."

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"Hey, I'm a positive influence," he says with mock indignation. "If it weren't for me, you'd be some goody-two-shoes honor student stressing over AP chem right now."

"Yeah, because my life would be so much worse," I reply with a smirk.

He grins but doesn't say anything else. For a while, it's just the sound of the city around us—the rush of tires on wet asphalt, the faint chatter of people passing by, and the distant roar of a train in the background.

As we turn onto my street, Keegan pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and pops one into his mouth, letting it dangle there unlit.

"Thought you quit," I say, nodding toward it.

He shrugs. "Still thinking about it. Besides, it's just for the aesthetic."

I roll my eyes but let it go. We reach my house, the familiar worn brick and slightly sagging porch coming into view. Keegan stops at the foot of the driveway, looking up at the place like he's never seen it before.

"You sure you're good, man?" he asks again, his voice quieter this time.

I pause, my hand on the gate. There's something about the way he says it—like he actually cares. It throws me off for a second.

"Yeah," I say, nodding. "Just tired, that's all."

He watches me for a moment longer, then gives a small nod. "Alright. I'll swing by after the show."

"Don't be late," I warn, pushing the gate open.

He smirks. "No promises."

I watch him walk away, his cigarette still dangling from his lips as he disappears around the corner. For a moment, I just stand there, the drizzle soaking through my hoodie. Then I head inside, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click.

The house is quiet—too quiet. My mom must still be at work, and the silence feels heavier than usual. I kick off my shoes and head upstairs, the familiar creak of the steps under my feet grounding me.

Once in my room, I close the door and flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. My head is still pounding, but the vision from earlier lingers more than the pain. The girl with the lightning, the broken ring, the beast veiled in darkness.

What does it mean?

I close my eyes, hoping sleep will bring answers. Or at least some peace.

———Keegan———

As I turn the corner, I slip into an alleyway, leaning back against the rough brick wall. My foot finds a spot to prop up behind me, and I fish the lighter out of my pocket. The cigarette in my lips flares to life with a quick flick.

Dylan would've had something smart to say if he saw it lit. Always does. Not in the mood for it today. Still, I can't shake the thought—what if there's something seriously wrong with him? What if those migraines and nosebleeds are, like, fuckin cancer or a brain bleed? I don't know shit about medical stuff, but it's gotta mean something, right?

He needs to see a doctor. But Dylan's stubborn as hell, always has been.

The truth is, he's about all the family I've got left. My mom's a drunk who barely remembers I exist, and my dad...well, he dipped out years ago. Not a story I like telling.

Dylan's always been there, though. His mom too. Every time my mom kicked me out, they'd take me in, no questions asked. Hell, I practically lived there for months at a time. I should've stayed, honestly. Would've been better than where I am now. But something about it didn't sit right with me. Felt like I was leeching off them, and I couldn't handle that.

We're both eighteen now, so I figured it was time to go out on my own. My "new place" isn't much to look at—it's literally an abandoned warehouse—but it's mine. Kind of. Okay, not legally, but who's gonna notice? Sure, it's probably infested with rats big enough to fight me for my last pack of ramen, but at least it's quiet, sometimes too quiet.

I take a long drag and let the smoke fill my lungs. For a moment, it dulls the thoughts racing through my head. But only for a moment.

Dylan's got his own mess to deal with, and I've got mine. But if something happens to him...

I shake the thought off and flick the ash to the ground.

"Pull it together, Keegan," I mutter to myself. Then, I take another drag and start walking, the sound of my boots echoing through the empty alley.

I finish my cigarette and flick the butt into a puddle, watching it fizzle out before stepping back onto the street. The sun's low now, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalks. The city's alive in that way it always is, cars honking in the distance, people talking too loudly, a stray dog rummaging through some trash. It's chaotic, sure, but there's a rhythm to it.

I pull my hoodie up, hands stuffed in my pockets, and start heading toward the edge of town. My place isn't far, just a ten-minute walk past the industrial district. It's not much, but it's home—or something like it.

As I cut through the backstreets, my mind keeps circling back to Dylan. He'd brush it off if I asked again, but I'm not letting this slide. Tomorrow, I'll press him harder. If he gets mad, so be it. Someone's gotta look out for him, and if that someone has to be me, then fine.

The thought distracts me so much I almost don't hear the noise behind me. A faint scuffle, like a boot scraping against pavement.

I stop in my tracks, glancing over my shoulder.

Nothing. Just shadows and streetlights flickering to life.

I shake it off and keep walking. Probably just a stray cat or something.

But a block later, I hear it again. Closer this time.

I turn sharply, and this time, I see movement—just a blur in the corner of my eye.

"Alright," I mutter, turning to face the shadows head-on. "You gonna keep creeping, or are you gonna show yourself?"

For a second, there's only silence. Then, a figure steps out of the darkness.

She's small but quick, her black jacket blending into the shadows around her. A hood hides most of her face, but her eyes catch the light—sharp and calculating. In her hands, she's twirling a bow like it's a toy.

"You always talk to yourself this much?" she asks, her voice smooth, almost amused.

I narrow my eyes. "Depends. You always follow people home, or is today special?"

She shrugs, her movements fluid. "Thought I recognized you. You're that guy from last week, right? The one who caught me on the roof. The one who thinks no one knows his little secret."

My blood runs cold. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She smirks, tossing the bow into her other hand. "Relax. Your secret's safe with me. For now, anyway, Voidwalker."

"And you are...?"

"Spectra," she says, like I should know the name.

I don't.

"Right. Cool name," I say dryly. "Now what do you want?"

She leans on her bow, studying me like she's sizing me up. "Just curious. You've been poking around places you shouldn't. Figured I'd see what your deal is."

"Poking around?" I scoff. "Says the one creeping through alleyways. Pretty bold talk for a cat burglar."

Her smirk widens. "Touché."

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The tension's thick enough to cut. Finally, she steps back into the shadows.

"You're kind of cute out of costume, Walker," she says, her voice echoing as she disappears into the dark. "Be seeing you."

I stand there for a while, trying to shake the feeling that I just stepped into something way over my head.

My heart pounds as I replay her words in my head. How the hell does she know?

I start walking again, faster this time, but my thoughts keep spiraling. How did she figure it out? I was careful. I'd been wearing the mask, staying in the shadows. Hell, I didn't even say anything to her when I stopped her from raiding that warehouse last week. It was just her and me—her bow against my powers.

But somehow, she knows.

Did I leave something behind? No. I combed through the place after she took off. There was no way she could've tracked me back to... well me.

Unless she was watching.

The thought makes my stomach churn. Has she been keeping tabs on me? Following me this whole time? But why?

And then there's the bigger question: how did she connect Voidstrider to Keegan fucking Blackwell, the guy no one even notices at school? Though she got that wrong I guess, she called me Voidwalker.

I reach the edge of the industrial district and push my hands deeper into my pockets, head down as the streetlights buzz overhead. This isn't just bad—it's dangerous.

If she figured it out, who else could?

I think about Dylan, about him sitting in the school bathroom with paper towels shoved up his nose, about how much he's been struggling lately. If someone put two and two together about me, they could figure out about him, too. Use him to get to me.

And that can't happen.

I clench my fists as I step through the rusted metal door of my so-called apartment. The air inside is cold, the faint smell of mildew clinging to the walls. I toss my bag on the floor and collapse onto the old mattress in the corner.

I need to figure this out. Fast.

Spectra knows something she shouldn't. And she didn't seem like the type to accidentally slip up. Which means she wanted me to know she's onto me.

It's a message.

But why? To scare me? To recruit me? To warn me?

I stare up at the cracked ceiling, the dim light from the streetlamp outside cutting through the darkness. One thing's for sure: she's not just some petty thief.

She's playing a game.

And whether I like it or not, I'm already a piece on her board.