Alma's eyes flickered open, his body rising instinctively from the unseen ground beneath him as he stretched his limbs and let out a quiet, drawn-out yawn. It was only then, as his gaze slowly adjusted, that he realized he was surrounded by an endless white expanse. There were no walls to confine him, no ceiling above to prevent him, no floor beneath to sustain him—only a seamless, infinite whiteness extending in every direction, so pure and silent that it seemed to swallow the very concept of space itself. The White Void.
And in the White Void, a distant sound echoed—a bell's chime. Yet each time he thought he heard it, the sound faded, vanishing as though it had never existed at all.
Yet Alma stood as though nothing were strange at all, as though this emptiness were a place he had always known. He could not tell where he faced—north, south, east, or west—but such distinctions felt irrelevant here. In this boundless silence, direction meant nothing; only the destination mattered, if one even existed.
He began to walk forward, his steps measured and unhurried. Each movement carried the same steady rhythm, his pace neither quickening nor faltering. His mind had not yet acknowledged this realm as foreign or dangerous; instead, there was an eerie calm to it, a quiet sense of peace that lingered beneath the surface, like the deceptive stillness of deep water. He walked on, and on, his figure small against infinity.
Time passed—or perhaps it didn't. Whether minutes, hours, or years slipped by, Alma could not tell. Here, the flow of time itself dissolved, replaced by the eternal hum of nothingness. It could have been a single heartbeat or an eternity before he finally stopped mid-step, his body straightening as if something unseen had called his attention.
When he turned, he found himself face to face with a woman. Her skin was pale, almost luminous against the endless white, and her hair—deep violet, cascading down her shoulders—was the only color in this colorless world. Alma recognized her immediately. It was the same woman he had encountered not long ago by the lake on his journey to Washington.
"Hey there," the woman said softly, her voice low and sultry yet carrying a faint, almost childlike innocence.
Without hesitation, her bare body pressed itself against his clothed form, her movements deliberate, insistent, testing for a reaction. Her skin was warm, too warm for this void, and her presence felt almost tangible compared to the empty air surrounding them.
When she found no response, she changed her tactic—her fingers rising to his face, tracing down his jaw, gliding across his chest, and slowly venturing lower. Alma caught her wrists firmly, halting her motion in an instant. For a moment, their eyes locked. He released her, and she stepped back, amusement curving her lips.
"It's you again," Alma said evenly. "The naked woman from the lake."
"Oh?" she teased, a faint smirk forming. "So you did make sure not to forget my body. How was it?" Her hands wandered lazily over her form, drawing attention to every contour as she tilted her head in mock innocence.
"There was nothing else to remember," Alma replied, his tone utterly plain. "A naked woman who assaulted me by the water. Nothing more, nothing less."
She laughed softly, raising one leg and resting her knee just between his thighs, the same motion as before.
"Ah, so you remember that, too. Most men rather enjoy that sort of thing—having a beautiful woman's knee brush against them like that. Some can only dream of it." Her words dripped with playful venom.
"I am not most men," Alma answered, his voice calm, his gaze unwavering.
"I know," she said, her grin widening. "There wasn't a trace of lust in you that day. Tell me, then—do you like femboys or something?"
Alma blinked, his expression shifting for the first time since his arrival. The unfamiliar term registered as foreign, almost alien to his understanding.
"I do not understand," he said simply. "What are you referring to?"
The woman chuckled, shaking her head. "It's something you wouldn't know," she said at last, her tone shifting as a long silence stretched between them. Then, her eyes darkened. "The Foreigner."
Alma's expression remained unreadable, his body still as stone. "And why do you say that?"
"I searched your memories," she replied, her voice now quieter, heavier. "There isn't much to see. It's as though you were only recently created. You appeared suddenly within the Multiverse, crossing from one universe to another, untouched by the pull of even the largest black holes. You moved freely through endless realities, slipping between them as though their infinite distances meant nothing."
Her words hung in the air, but Alma did not flinch. There was no panic, no fear—only calm acknowledgment. She studied him carefully, curious as to why no trace of terror surfaced in his eyes. Even here, where her ability could probe his every thought, she could not uncover anything.
"Yes," Alma said at last. "That is how it happened. That is how I came to this world."
She smiled faintly, pressing her tongue into the corner of her cheek before speaking again. "For someone whose greatest secret I've just revealed," she murmured, "you're not reacting quite like I expected."
"That's to be expected," Alma replied smoothly. "After all, you did say I was a foreigner… The Foreigner."
Her grin softened. "I suppose." She extended her hand toward him, her voice turning sweet once more. "My name is Ardath. Pleased to be your guest… or you rather, my host."
Alma took her hand and shook it firmly. "Alma Alastor," he said.
"And what do you mean by calling me your host?" he asked, but Ardath only smiled, her eyes gleaming with an unreadable light.
"You'll find out soon, my love," she whispered, her voice echoing through the void like a song fading into distance.
Before Alma could respond, a sudden force tore through the stillness. The world around him fractured, and he was pulled backward with tremendous speed, the whiteness shattering into darkness—
His eyes snapped open. He sat upright, gasping softly as he found himself back in the familiar dimness of his apartment bedroom. Beside him, Jasmine lay sound asleep, her small hand wrapped around his arm. The sight drew a faint smile to his lips. Carefully, he eased himself from the bed, doing his best not to disturb her rest.
It had been a week since that horrific Halloween night—since the explosions, the flames, the screams. Twenty-two thousand lives had been lost that night. The police officers who died in the line of duty were honored as heroes, and rightly so: each had saved at least five others. The numbers they saved, tragic as they were, had been outweighed by the overall death count. However, that told only part of the story. Their courage would never be forgotten.
The man wielding the device believed to have caused the destruction—a tall figure with a strange device—was now wanted across the United States. Yet Alma suspected the truth was more complex. That device was used for a different purpose. Not for all the destruction. That man sent every fear receptor off in Alma's head. He had not been this unsettled by an adversary since The General, the one who had once forced him to unleash a power he swore never to use again.
Meanwhile, the Beasts of Ruin were spreading faster than ever. Reports from the Monarchs spoke of their growing intelligence—no longer mindless, but aware, calculating, even childlike in comprehension. Humanity's safety was dwindling by the day.
Alma sat at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. He gazed out of the window, looking at the sky. The sun hid behind gray clouds that threatened rain. It was a gloomy day, yet to him, it suited what he was feeling. The faint scent of roasted beans filled the air as he shifted his gaze into the dark surface of the drink, contemplating. He possessed the strength to eliminate the Beasts, to protect humanity. He had the abilites to kill them all, and the abilities to not get harmed at all. Yet the question that lingered was whether he could endure the mental toll of such endless conflict. Killing a few might be bearable—but thousands? That would consume him.
If he acted publicly, the world would depend on him. If the nation called, he would be bound by duty. But at what cost? He owed nothing to anyone. And yet, how could he simply sit idly by while innocents were slaughtered?
He sighed quietly and took another sip of coffee. The warmth spread through him, but it did nothing to quiet the turmoil within.
He was happy. He had Jasmine. He had peace.
Would he risk it all for strangers—risk his quiet life, his daughter's safety, everything he had rebuilt—to save a world that would likely turn against him the moment they learned who he truly was?
Perhaps anonymity would protect him, but secrets have a way of unraveling, and once they did, neither he nor Jasmine would ever be truly safe again.
The burden of power, he realized, was not in bearing it—but in knowing that those you loved most were the ones who would bleed if you ever used it.
And somewhere within that thought, something vast stirred awake.
The sun hid behind gray clouds, its light diffused across the sky in a dull, somber haze. It felt like the world itself had forgotten warmth.
What exactly it was, he couldn't say—but it tied back to that long-buried feeling of purpose he once held. Now, that feeling stirred again, faint yet growing.
Alma rose from his seat in the kitchen and walked toward the bathroom, clothes in hand. He turned on the shower, hoping the water would wash away the weight in his mind.
The warmth flowed over him, steady and calming, yet his thoughts refused to settle. His mind drifted back to that room he'd found in the sewers—a place too perfect, too hidden. From there, anyone could move undetected beneath Washington. A frightening thought, though perhaps inevitable, given its location.
He tilted his head back, eyes closed, letting the water run down his face. The Beasts of Ruin were becoming more active. That man from a week ago. The woman in the White Void. And the secret he still hadn't shared with Jasmine. The more he hid, the more everything seemed to unravel. And deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that it all traced back to him.
Alma twisted the knob and stepped out, drying his face with a towel. For a moment, he stared at his reflection in the mirror—tired eyes, faint stubble, a man trying to remember who he used to be.
What would he do now?
---
It was still early, barely past six. The streets of D.C. were hushed beneath the cold breath of morning. Alma walked aimlessly, his thoughts heavier than the air around him. He just needed time—an hour, maybe—to be alone.
There was so much. Too much. More than his last life, it seemed. And he couldn't help but wonder why he had to live through all of it again.
It all began with Jasmine—and with her, his happiness. He loved her deeply. That would never change. He would never regret finding her in that alley. Yet sometimes he wondered how his life might have turned out if he hadn't.
Would his home in North Carolina still stand? Would there even be a home to return to? Even if it was gone, he would still have this life: looking after Jasmine, providing for her, shaping her into someone better than himself.
A faint smile softened his features.
"I guess… this isn't as bad as I thought."
---
When he returned, Jasmine was still asleep, clinging to a pillow as if it were him. Alma smiled quietly, then checked the clock—just past seven.
He slid into bed beside her, carefully replacing the pillow. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around him, tighter than before. It wouldn't hurt to rest a little longer.
As he lay there, though, a strange feeling came over him—a connection. It wasn't the same as before, not the tender bond of father and daughter. This was deeper, almost primordial. Their souls felt intertwined, though not entirely their own.
His eyes shifted, faintly glowing. Evil Eyes had activated. He peered into Jasmine's soul—no corruption, no distortion, nothing amiss. Everything appeared normal. And yet, that feeling of connection remained, stronger than ever. It was as if something unseen bound them together—something that was neither of them.
He deactivated Evil Eyes and closed his normal eyes again, drawing Jasmine close. Sleep came to him slowly, almost reluctantly, but eventually, it came.
Two hours later, sunlight spilled across the apartment in a soft golden hue. Alma's eyes fluttered open. Jasmine still slept soundly beside him.
He rose quietly, padded to the kitchen, and poured himself another cup of coffee—his second of the morning. The world outside had brightened, but his thoughts still lingered in that dim, gray place between dreams and waking.
Soon after, Jasmine stirred awake. She stretched with a quiet yawn, one leg trembling from the motion before settling still.
Across the room, Alma sat at the dining table, sipping from a steaming mug. Jasmine rose from the bed, padding softly to the table before sitting across from him. She reached for a banana, peeling it slowly, the sound of tearing skin faint beneath the hum of morning silence.
Alma glanced over his cup with a faint smirk. "How did you sleep?"
"Pretty good," she said, finishing the peel. "I feel like a new person." She took a bite, her voice light but sincere.
"Oh, really?" Alma teased, setting his mug down. "Is that why you slept two extra hours?"
Jasmine swallowed, her tone dropping. "Yeah…" she murmured. Something about her voice carried weight.
Alma's expression softened. "What's wrong?"
Jasmine stood, threw away the banana peel in the kitchen, then returned to him with a distant look. "I had a dream," she said quietly.
He leaned forward. "A dream?"
"It wasn't like the others. Most of my dreams are about my parents—about the beatings, the yelling, the pain." She paused, her eyes far away. "But this one was different. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't terrible either."
Alma said nothing, urging her silently to go on.
"I was in a void… but it wasn't empty. It was filled with stars, galaxies—everything in space. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. I felt like I had power… power to change everything, maybe even beyond the world itself."
Her voice faltered. "What… what was that?"
Alma blinked, unsure how to answer. His thoughts raced back to his own dream that morning, to the strange connection he'd felt beside her.
"I… don't know," he finally said, his tone quiet. "Did you see anyone else? A person?"
Jasmine frowned in thought. "I saw a woman. Her face was hidden—no, more like the light itself was keeping it from me. She wore a golden gown that shone brighter than any of the galaxies I saw. Her body was thin, but not frail. Even though I couldn't see her face… I knew she was beautiful."
Alma's breath caught. His expression froze, unreadable. The details mirrored his own dream too closely—excluding the faceless woman, her dream had the void, the feeling of awe. But hers wasn't white like his; hers had stars, life, direction. Meaning.
After a long silence, Jasmine forced a small laugh. "Well, it was just a dream, right? Probably that ice cream from my birthday finally getting its revenge."
Alma smiled faintly but could see the unease beneath her humor. He reached across the table and took her hand. "If you ever need to talk about it, I'm here. Always."
Jasmine nodded and placed her other hand atop his, squeezing gently. "I know. Thank you, Dad."
She stood and stretched again, her mood lifting. "Oh! Roseanne's coming in about an hour. We're going shopping—and she's paying."
Alma blinked, then chuckled. "Right… I completely forgot about that. You sure you don't want me to come along?"
"Dad, no," she said, grinning. "You've been working nonstop this week. Enjoy your day off. Don't worry about me." She started toward the bathroom, then stopped in the doorway with a playful look. "Besides, I want what I buy to be a surprise for you."
She disappeared into the bathroom. Alma sighed, glancing into his half-empty mug.
"Is this what my mother felt when I started growing up?" he muttered to himself. "She's only ten, but it feels like she's about to leave for college." He wiped a mock tear from his eye, smiling faintly.
Twenty minutes later, Jasmine emerged, her hair dry and her outfit chosen carefully for the day ahead.
Alma sat on the couch watching the morning news. The anchorman's tone was grave. "The Basilisk and Cyclops Monarchs have been… killed in action."
Both Alma and Jasmine froze, eyes wide.
"This report comes shortly after their battle with a highly intelligent and overwhelmingly powerful Beast of Ruin this morning," the anchorman continued. "Around six A.M in Somerset, Kentucky, the Leviathan Monarch—currently ranked second strongest—was ultimately the one to bring it down. Even after the Basilisk and Cyclops Monarchs had weakened it, the Leviathan Monarch described the fight as 'non-life-threatening,' and, 'still difficult.'"
The man's voice grew quieter, heavier.
"With the Phoenix and Dragon Monarchs still missing, the loss of Basilisk and Cyclops is catastrophic. I fear humanity as we know it may be doomed in the years to come."
The room fell silent. The coffee on the table had gone cold.
Alma looked at Jasmine with quiet worry, his eyes holding that subtle tremor of concern only a parent could wear. Jasmine met his gaze with equal unease, though hers carried a soft apprehension, as if she wanted to ease his mind but didn't quite know how.
For a time, the room was still, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the muffled sound of wind brushing against the windowpane. Then, after a pause that felt longer than it was, Jasmine was the first to speak.
"Don't worry, Dad. I'm sure we'll be alright," she said, her tone hopeful yet careful, the kind of hope that tries to convince itself as much as the listener.
Before Alma could reply, a gentle series of knocks echoed against the door—three quick taps, then silence.
"Hello? Alma? Jasmine?" came Roseanne's voice, muffled through the wood.
The doorknob turned with a soft click, revealing Jasmine as the one who opened it. She stepped aside politely, letting the light from the hallway spill into the dim apartment. Alma remained seated on the couch, his posture steady but his eyes fixed on the doorway.
"Hello, dear," Roseanne greeted warmly, bending down to give Jasmine a brief but affectionate hug. "I see your father still hasn't found the decency to greet an old woman at his own door."
Her teasing tone drew a small, fleeting smile from Jasmine.
"He's been really busy this past week," Jasmine replied, closing the door behind her. "I told him that just you and me would go shopping today."
Roseanne arched a brow, a hint of amusement softening her voice. "Oh, really? But you're only ten. Who lets their child your age go out and about like that?"
Her gaze drifted toward Alma, as though waiting for a parental protest.
"Because he trusts you," Jasmine said quickly, almost proudly. "Believe me, if he didn't, you wouldn't even be allowed to look at me."
Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she leaned closer and motioned for Roseanne to bend down.
"Alma isn't a controlling parent," she whispered, in a tone that mimicked playful rebellion. "I actually get free will instead of being confined to one place all day."
Roseanne blinked at her, half amused, half puzzled. "Is that how your parents treated you?" she asked, curiosity threading her tone.
At once, Jasmine froze, realizing she had said too much. A nervous laugh slipped out, brittle and short.
"Uh… hahaha… don't worry about it," she said, scratching her arm as if the motion could erase the words she'd just spoken.
Roseanne studied her a moment longer but decided not to pry. She straightened up, smoothing the front of her jacket. "Well then, don't you want him to approve what you get? No matter what Alma says, you're still a child."
"I know," Jasmine admitted, her tone soft but sure. "But I want this to be a surprise. At least give him something to look forward to that isn't work or stress."
Roseanne sighed—resigned, but touched by the thought—and finally nodded. Her eyes drifted toward Alma again, who was idly flicking through television channels, his attention only half there.
Sensing their gaze, Alma looked up. "Are you two about ready to leave?" he asked, his tone casual, though there was a faint undercurrent of tension beneath it.
"Yes, actually," Roseanne said. "We were just about to head out."
Alma set the remote aside and rose slowly from the couch. Crossing the short distance to Jasmine, he knelt to her level and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Before you go, I want to set a few rules, alright?" he said, his voice soft but steady. "Always stay beside Roseanne—or at least within her line of sight. Don't stray behind her, don't break hand contact, and don't wander off without telling her first. Understand?"
Jasmine nodded, listening closely.
"Good," he continued. "If someone tries to grab you, scream as loud as you can—and I mean scream. Don't hesitate. Don't think. Just make sure someone hears you."
He paused, the next words carrying a tenderness that broke through his otherwise composed demeanor. "And finally… remember that I love you."
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Jasmine's face lit up with a small, genuine smile, and she threw her arms around him in a tight embrace.
"I love you too, Dad," she said quietly before pulling back.
Alma smiled at her, something faint and wistful in his eyes, then straightened and looked toward Roseanne. Both adults exchanged a brief nod—an unspoken acknowledgment of trust and responsibility.
"Well then," Roseanne said, taking Jasmine's hand firmly, "let's go before your father has a heart attack worrying about us."
Jasmine giggled, looking back toward Alma. "Bye!"
"Bye," he replied, waving from the doorway. "Have fun—and stay safe."
He stood there until the elevator doors closed and their voices faded down the hall. Only then did he step back inside and close the apartment door, locking it with a quiet click.
He sank back onto the couch, reaching for the remote again. The flicker of changing channels filled the silence, a faint distraction from the worry gnawing at him. Roseanne was more than capable—brave, experienced, careful—but none of that quieted the restless thoughts circling in his mind.
What if someone tried to attack them? Or worse…
He exhaled sharply and shook his head, forcing the thought away.
"They'll be fine," he murmured, though his voice trembled faintly against the stillness.
---
Capital of the United States of America — The White House
The President sat alone in the Oval Office, his pen gliding across the page of a thin, leather-bound notebook. The room was quiet but alive with the faint ticking of the clock and the low hum of air circulation—a solitude reserved for the powerful and the sleepless.
The door opened with a muted click. A man in a black suit and red tie entered, his steps deliberate, carrying the weight of unspoken urgency.
"Sir," the man began, "I have to report a few things."
The President glanced up, setting his pen aside and folding his hands together. "Yes, Henry?"
"The most significant first," Henry said, pausing for breath. "The Phoenix Monarch has been located."
The President straightened, interest sharpening his features. "Are you positive?"
"Yes, sir. The Hydra Monarch found a young man in Iran who carries the essence of the Mythical Beast—of the Phoenix itself."
The President leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Already? The last time the Phoenix found a host, it took nearly a year. Only four months have passed since the previous Monarch died. Fascinating."
Henry nodded gravely. "There's more. The Hydra Monarch claims the essence in this new host feels… stronger. Far stronger than the last."
The President's expression darkened with thought. A faster manifestation, and a more potent one. That defied every precedent he knew.
"Go on," he said.
"There have also been multiple reports of unidentified individuals," Henry continued. "One in particular—a man with purple and magenta hair—has been stealing advanced technology from several military bases."
The President frowned, disbelief flickering across his face. "You're telling me one man managed to steal from us? From the United States?"
"I wish it weren't true," Henry replied. "But our systems didn't detect him at all. Not visually, not through heat signatures, not even on satellite scans. He appeared, took what he wanted, and vanished. Like a ghost."
The President's brow furrowed. "Could it be one of the intelligent Beasts of Ruin?" he asked, then shook his head almost immediately. "No… if it were, I'd have sensed it myself."
"Exactly," Henry said. "And those creatures are massive—twenty times the size of a man. This one was… human."
Henry hesitated before pulling out an orange folder. He slid it across the desk. A single photograph slipped free, landing face-up before the President.
The image showed a tall figure sprinting across the open plaza before the Washington Monument, dressed in dark clothing and a black ski mask.
The President lifted the photo, studying it with sharp, practiced eyes. "What's this?"
"That," Henry said quietly, "is who we saw on October 31st. The ski-masked man appeared alongside the perpetrator. They seemed to be in conflict—the masked one chasing the other—before the dark figure vanished, and yhe ski-masked man ran into nearby alleyways."
The President sifted through the stack of photographs spread across his desk, the glossy prints catching glints of light as he turned them one by one. Each image captured fragments of chaos—blurred motion, deep shadows, and two distinct figures: one masked, the other a tall, indistinct silhouette that seemed to absorb the light around it.
He lingered on one photo longer than the rest, tracing the edge with his thumb before glancing up.
"And you're certain they weren't working together?" he asked, his tone calm but edged with fatigue.
"Absolutely certain, sir," Henry replied firmly. "They were enemies. No hesitation or deception between them."
The President nodded faintly, his expression unreadable. The room seemed to grow quieter with each passing second—the air thick, heavy with the unspoken implications.
Henry, ever persistent, broke the silence. "And then there's the other matter—that mysterious figure who appeared three months ago."
The President exhaled through his nose, rolling his eyes in restrained irritation.
Every day since that first report, Henry had brought him updates—new sightings, new theories, new concerns. It had become a kind of ritual: obsession on one side of the desk, weariness on the other.
"Henry…" the President began, his voice low, warning.
Henry raised both hands defensively, already anticipating the response. "I know, I know—we've gone over this before. But you're still not understanding how dangerous this is!" he said, his voice rising with urgency. "This… thing appeared out of nowhere and effortlessly destroyed three Monarch-level Beasts of Ruin—three of them—and then vanished without a trace! You know what that means, sir. He's on your level!"
For a heartbeat, the room went silent again—the weight of Henry's words hanging in the air like smoke.
Then the President stood, slow and deliberate, his shadow stretching across the desk. "Yes, yes—your research and attention to detail are as impressive as ever," he said, his tone measured, almost dismissive. "But I've got enough on my plate as it is. Damage reports, reconstruction funding, international briefings… I don't have the luxury of entertaining theories right now."
He moved toward the door, gesturing for Henry to follow. "Your efforts are appreciated, truly. Now get some rest. I'll call if I need you."
Henry hesitated for a moment, wanting to argue further, but the look in the President's eyes—calm, authoritative, and final—told him the conversation was over. He gave a short nod and stepped out of the room, the door closing softly behind him.
For a long moment, the President stood alone in silence. Then, slowly, he turned and walked back toward his desk—though instead of sitting, he stopped by the tall window behind his chair. The night outside stretched endlessly, the city lights shimmering like distant embers beneath the dark.
He rested a hand against the cold glass, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Whatever that thing is," he murmured, half to himself, "it seems tied to the United States… perhaps even to the Americas themselves."
His reflection in the window seemed to look back at him, faint and uncertain.
"This being—whatever it may be—operates on a level frighteningly close to mine."
A pause followed, long and heavy. His voice grew quieter, almost reverent.
"Lord… help me."
---
It had been hours. The clock above the TV read 9:33 PM, each tick puncturing Alma's nerves like a slow, deliberate knife. Neither Jasmine nor Roseanne had returned. He sat on the couch, one knee bouncing, hand pressed against his mouth. His eyes were wide, strained—filled with worry he couldn't conceal.
Ten more minutes.
Nothing.
Alma rose sharply from the couch, snatching his black leather jacket from the hook by the door and pulling his white beanie over his head. He hesitated only long enough to lock the door behind him, muttering curses under his breath. He knew he shouldn't have let them go—not after what the anchorman had said on the evening news. Not when every instinct screamed against it.
He stabbed the elevator button over and over, pacing in tight circles as if the motion alone could summon it faster. When the doors finally opened, Alma stepped inside like a man escaping his own fear. The ride felt eternal. Every flicker of the descending lights deepened his anxiety.
The doors opened with a chime. Alma hurried through the lobby toward the glass doors—then froze.
Outside, under the dim orange glow of the streetlights, he saw them. Roseanne and Jasmine. Walking side by side, tired but safe. Relief hit him first—then irritation. He let out a deep sigh and stepped back, letting them spot him on their own.
Roseanne pushed open the door. Jasmine entered first, her eyes instantly locking on him.
"Dad? What are you doing down here?" she asked, puzzled.
Roseanne looked at Alma, equally confused.
"I was worried sick!" Alma said, voice sharp with both fear and relief. "You've been gone for hours. I thought something had happened."
"I'm sorry, Alma," Roseanne said softly. "I didn't realize how late it had gotten."
Alma sighed, the sound heavy. He knelt down and wrapped Jasmine in his arms. "At least you're both safe. That's all that matters."
He stood up again, rubbing his forehead as though trying to push away the lingering fear.
Through the glass, a man stumbled past outside. He was missing a shoe, the other torn open at the toe. His blue puffy jacket was caked in grime, and his beige pants were stained dark at the knees.
"See that man?" Alma said, nodding toward the figure. "That's what I was afraid of."
Roseanne frowned. "You can't just judge someone by their looks, Alma. He's homeless."
"Exactly," Alma said, snapping his fingers. "He's desperate. He'd kill for even five dollars."
His hand rested protectively on Jasmine's shoulders.
"Come on, honey. Let's head back up. Did you get everything you wanted?"
"I sure did!" Jasmine beamed, holding up the bags proudly. "I can't wait for you to see them!"
Alma chuckled. "And I can't wait either."
Roseanne smirked as the elevator doors opened. "You'd better be happy. She poured her whole heart into picking them out—just for you."
"Nothing she picks could ever disappoint me," Alma said as they stepped in.
The doors slid shut. The hum of the rising elevator filled the silence between them.
Back in the apartment, Jasmine darted into the bathroom with her bags. Roseanne placed the rest by the door, shrugging off her white sweater to reveal a black long sleeve undershirt beneath. Alma's eyes lingered for a moment—she looked young, beautiful, radiant even. Sixty-five, yet her presence defied time. His gaze washed over her form respectfully, wondering fleetingly if he'd ever age half as gracefully.
The bathroom door creaked open, and Jasmine stepped out, glowing with excitement.
She wore a pale lavender hoodie with a silver zipper, denim shorts over black leggings, and soft white sneakers. Her hair was tied back with a pink scrunchie, strands escaping around her face. She spun once, smiling wide. "What do you think, Dad?"
Alma smiled. "You look perfect, Jasmine."
She giggled, then dashed back into the bathroom. Moments later, she emerged again.
A cream-colored blouse with tiny ruffles at the collar, paired with a plaid skirt in navy and gray. Knee-high socks, black flats. She did a little curtsy, her tone teasing. "For fancy dinners or royal invitations only."
Roseanne laughed. "You'll have to find a prince first."
Alma shook his head. "She already rules my kingdom."
Jasmine's smile grew even brighter, retreating back into the bathroom once more.
A long-sleeved shirt with stars scattered across it, a faint shimmer to the fabric, and light blue jeans cuffed above the ankle. Around her neck hung a small charm Roseanne had bought her—a tiny glass moon. "This one's my favorite," she said softly.
"It suits you," Alma replied. "You always did have your head in the stars."
Finally, she stepped out in something a little bolder—a red cropped jacket, dark fitted jeans, and a pair of short black boots. Her hair fell freely now, brushing her shoulders. She looked older somehow—confident.
Alma's expression softened, his eyes both proud and wistful. "You're growing up too fast," he said.
"Not too fast," Jasmine replied, smiling. "Just enough to be your little girl."
Alma smiled warmly, tears threatening threatening spill.
Roseanne laughed quietly from the couch, watching Alma. For a moment, the apartment felt warmer—like the fear and worry from earlier had never existed.
"Did you enjoy what I got?" Jasmine asked, eyes bright with hope.
"I did," Alma replied, smiling warmly. "They all looked wonderful on you."
Her grin widened, pride and happiness glowing in her face. The two of them kept talking—about her favorite outfit, the dinner Roseanne treated her to, the people they'd seen. Half an hour drifted by in quiet contentment, laughter rising now and then between them.
Eventually, Roseanne stood, slipping her arms into her white sweater once more. "Well," she said softly, "I should get going before it gets too late out there."
She leaned down, giving Jasmine a gentle hug, then turned to Alma and embraced him as well.
"Bye, Roseanne!" Jasmine waved, her hand flapping eagerly as Roseanne stepped halfway through the doorway.
"Goodbye, sweetheart! Love you!" Roseanne called, returning the wave with a tired but genuine smile. "Goodnight!"
"Goodnight!" Alma and Jasmine said together, their voices overlapping. Roseanne chuckled quietly before closing the door behind her.
Silence lingered for a moment, soft and peaceful.
"Now…" Alma murmured, letting out a long yawn. "Time for bed."
---
Unknown location — November 8th, 2:36 a.m.
The room was vast and cluttered, its scale swallowed by dim overhead lights that left corners in a gray, indifferent half-shadow; boxes lay scattered in careless piles, metal desks stood at odd angles and bore haphazard stacks of paper whose edges caught the light like the teeth of some dormant machine. Along the far wall, a line of men in dark, military-style clothing and patchwork armor stood motionless, rifles cradled but ready, their silhouettes rigid as if carved from shadow, each one a quiet, watchful presence by the heavy steel door that dominated the room. Directly opposite that door, on a low red pedestal that lifted it above the detritus of the floor, a golden throne sat like an accusation, and upon that throne a man reclined, legs crossed, his black cloak swallowing the throne's glare.
The steel door groaned open with a long, resonant sound that rolled through the space and snapped every head toward it; the noise was a summons and an alarm all at once. Two figures stepped through the threshold—one in a white lab coat, hair the color of bruised sunsets, streaked purple and magenta; the other shrouded head to toe in black, every feature hidden beneath cloth and shadow. The lab-coated man moved with a kind of excitable precision; the black-clad one, silent and measured, was a living absence.
The man on the throne lifted one hand, and the light from the doorway caught his face enough to show a mouth scented with aftershave, the detail oddly domestic against the room's grim purpose. Both newcomers lowered themselves to one knee, heads bowed—whether in respect or in fear it was impossible to tell from the angle of their shoulders. For a long beat the room held its breath.
"Speak," the man said finally, his voice low and rough as gravel rubbing against leather.
Viroth—lab coat, grin broad and feral—looked up first, eyes bright with a dangerous pleasure. "Eclipser and I have collected enough souls for you," he announced, each word delivered with a boyish, unsteady triumph.
Eclipser's reply was quick and clipped. "Everything is in place. We await your command." His voice carried no tremor; it was the single chord of a machine that did not doubt its own purpose.
The man on the throne rose slowly, the motion deliberate, as though to savor the shift in the room's tenor. A smile—thin and predatory—cut across his face. "You have done well," he said, each syllable heavy with approval. He paused long enough for a silence to thicken, then continued, the calm in his voice curdling into something colder and sharper: "Prepare yourselves. One month from now we begin the downfall of the United States of America—and then…the world." The words unraveled into a sound that was at first a smirk, then a high, manic cackle, and finally a psychotic laugh that rolled and lingered around the metal and cardboard, echoing long after the last note died away.
And in the shadows of that laughter, the balance of the world was threatened.