New York, 2012.
United States of America.
People want to be happy.
But most don't really know what that means.
So they grasp at anything that looks like it, attention, touch, money, validation, anything that shrinks the emptiness, if only for a moment.
"Goddamn it, Corvin, you're late again. You wanna get fired or what? No time to waste, move it!"
For the blonde kid sprinting down the cracked street, it was money. And a wish, one day, to buy a house he could call his own.
Bump!!
"Watch where you're going, boy."
"I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry."
"The hell?"
"Kids these days don't respect their elders."
After all, those with nothing in their pocket can only chase a dream that might never come true. Even so, most at least had someone who cared, at least parents.
Corvin Delacroix, eighteen and a school dropout, didn't even have that.
But this wasn't the time to be thinking about life.
He was late for work, again. Corvin had finished his first gig, distributing newspapers before sunrise, like he did every morning. After that came the second: working at the convenience store on 84th.
It wasn't easy juggling two gigs at once.
It took him ten more minutes of running to reach it, too far from where he lived, but rent didn't care about distance.
The bell above the glass door gave a tired jingle.
Corvin stumbled in, nearly slipping on a half-mopped patch of tile.
Behind the counter, Mr. Patel sat perched on a low stool. The old man had run this place longer than most of the buildings on the block had stood.
Indian by origin, cardigan draped over his narrow frame, sleeves rolled up like always. His round glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose.
"Haha! Corvin. You're late, you bastard."
"Good morning. It was the train...Gaa..Haa... fifteen minutes."
"I know. Always the train. Sometimes it's traffic. Sometimes a ghost. Next time, sleep at the station."
"I'm sorry."
Corvin moved behind the counter, careful not to knock over the box of receipts teetering off the edge.
"Haha! Forget it. Have you eaten yet?"
"I'm good."
"You don't look good. You look like you lost a fight with the pavement."
The old man reached under the counter, still rummaging.
"I brought something from Cassandra's shop. And I'm going to a wedding today. You can eat my lunchbox."
"Mr. Patel, it's not needed. I'm fi—"
A cold sandwich in plastic wrap hit Corvin's chest. He caught it before it hit the floor.
"Eat in the back. Not near the customers."
"I'll pay you back."
"Haha! There's no need."
"Thanks."
"There's a leak in the fridge. Grab a mop after you eat."
"Got it."
"And clean the front window. Some punk left half his name on the glass. Probably thought he was Picasso."
By the time Corvin finished his half-stale sandwich, Mr. Patel was gone, off to the wedding he'd mentioned.
Only the boy with green eyes and blond hair remained.
The store became quiet, Shelves lined with cheap groceries. Cold drinks, milk, phone cards, discount detergent. Nothing special.
But first, he had to clean. Always started with cleaning.
Corvin let out a long breath and reached for the mop.
Five minutes later.
The mop water had gone cloudy.
Corvin dragged it over aisle two one last time, wrung out the strands, then kicked the utility closet shut behind him.
He grabbed a cloth, wiped the register clean, and leaned on the counter.
Convenience stores were a graveyard when there were no customers.
Bored, he fished out the remote from under the till, gave it a slap, and hit power.
The old boxy TV flickered to life.
DNN was already on. Bright colors. An over-lit studio. And a smiling bald anchor with too-white teeth.
"—inspiring work today from the Stark Outreach Initiative, now officially sponsoring over fifty thousand orphan shelters across the globe. The tech giant's foundation, led by Mr. Stark, promises education access, mental health programs, and relocation efforts for war-displaced children. As always, Iron Man proving he's the hero of America—"
Corvin stared, unmoved. He had no real opinion on Iron Man, even if the Stark Tower logo spinning on screen looked like a promise.
Click. The channel flipped.
And a red-haired woman with a sharp face filled the frame.
"—and in what's being called the 'revival of an icon,' sources confirm that Steve Rogers—yes, Captain America himself—has returned from classified status. No footage yet, but Pentagon leaks suggest suspended stasis revival. Many call it a miracle. A second coming of the Golden Age."
Old footage rolled: black-and-white shots of Rogers smiling, waving. Parades. Speeches. That too-clean jawline.
Eyes that seemed too bright to belong to a real person.
The anchor's voice carried on.
"A symbol of integrity in uncertain times. But with rising street-level chaos in cities like New York and Chicago, critics ask, what place does a World War II relic have in today's world? That's the big question. Stay tuned to TV6."
America was changing fast. Two years ago, there was a green monster called Hulk tearing through cities. Then, right after, a man in red and gold armor showed up, fighting weird villains.
Just a few days ago, someone with a hammer had fallen from the sky. So hearing that a man buried in ice had come back to life didn't sound all that strange anymore.
Of course, all these massive changes made Corvin a little uneasy. He was a completely normal human with no affiliation to anything supernatural.
So stuff like this? It scared him a bit.
"Haaah... better to nap than watch these clowns. No one comes in this early anyway."
And so, the poor TV got turned off again.
But maybe a quick nap just wasn't in the cards today.
The bell jingled, and a woman stepped inside.
Hoodie pulled up, shoulders hunched against the cold. Glasses on, like always.
She moved straight toward the counter with slow steps.
"Oh, good morning, Ms. Roseline."
"Good morning."
The woman was a regular customer at the store, lived in the seven-story apartment nearby.
"You're actually pretty early today, Corvin."
"Mr. Patel's at a wedding, so..."
"Lucky him. You got anything that'll keep my eyes open past noon?"
"Top shelf. Second fridge. Blue can's the strongest. Tastes like battery acid, though."
"I'll take two."
Corvin reached under the counter and grabbed a brown paper bag.
Watched as she picked out the cans and set them down, exact change already in her hand.
But right then, everything around him began to shift.
The world warped.
The sound cut out, like someone hit mute on reality.
The store blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into one another like a dimensional glitch.
The woman across from him, the familiar, worn face of Roseline, flashed into something else entirely. A red skeleton.
Skin gone, eyes hollow, bones wrapped in flickering muscle and nerves.
The air rippled like water, bending the shelves, the lights, even his own hands, darkening like ink bleeding through paper.
And even then, no fear came. Just numbness.
Like his emotions had been shut off too.
"Corvin! Corvin! Snap out of it, you're scaring me—what's happening?"
"Goddamn it, Corvin!"
Roseline, the same woman who bought coffee and energy drinks every morning before catching the metro, was now reaching over the counter, alarm in her eyes.
Corvin wasn't moving.
He Couldn't.
His eyes glowed faint blue.
Sweat poured down his temples, soaking the collar of his shirt even with the AC blasting.
"Haaah... haa... what the hell..."
"You alright?"
Just as quickly as it started, it was over.
The world stitched itself back together.
Light returned to normal.
Roseline looked human again.
The colors, the sound, everything was normal.
Corvin collapsed onto the stool behind the counter, breathing hard.
"Yeah. I'm fine. Thanks for your concern, Ms. Rose… here's your change."
"Ah... well... take a break if you need to. You don't look great."
"I'll manage it."
She hesitated, clearly not buying it, but gave him a nod, took her drinks, and walked out.
The bell jingled again.
And a heavy silence followed.
Corvin sat there for a while, sweat cooling on his skin. Heart still pounding.
"What the hell was that...? Is it because I'm skipping meals to save money? No... that doesn't explain that."
The memory still burned behind his eyes. That blue light surrounding him. Every sound stretched thin. Every shape sharp and vibrating.
He could see an ant crawling on the front window 50 meter away.
Not just see it, but hear it.
Tiny feet dragging over the wood trim, scratching like nails on paper.
"Forget it. Let's get back to work. Customers'll be coming in soon."
He wasn't sure what had happened.
Even if it scared him a little, there was nothing he could do.
He was an atheist, believing in something beyond made it even harder to accept.
But one thing was certain...
In that moment, his body did things no human could ever imagine.
(End Of The Chapter)