The city didn't sleep. It never had.
Even in the quiet neighborhoods west of downtown Atlanta, the hum of power lines, the bark of distant dogs, and the occasional wail of sirens composed a lullaby Malik Graves had known his entire life.
He sat on the edge of the roof outside his bedroom window, hoodie up, legs dangling, watching the streetlights flicker like they were arguing with the dark. From up here, the world looked manageable. Predictable. Small.
He knew better.
His fingers fidgeted with the cracked screen of his phone. A message blinked unanswered:
Yo, u good? That thing last night… u saw it too, right? – Trek.
He hadn't responded.
What could he say? Yeah bro, I think I remembered being a necromancer general with a ghost army. Also pretty sure I raised a behemoth made of bone and soulfire. Wanna hit Waffle House?
Yeah, no.
He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Something felt wrong. Or maybe… too right.
Ever since the nightmare—no, the memory—three nights ago, everything had shifted. Food tasted off. Sounds came late. He'd passed by a cemetery yesterday and felt a warmth in his spine like someone had lit a candle beneath his skin.
He hadn't told anyone. Not his mom. Not his dad. Not even Naomi, and they'd been close since fifth grade.
But he couldn't ignore it anymore.
He knew things. Words in languages he'd never studied. Symbols etched into the back of his mind like carvings in a locked tomb. The other night, his dad had handed him a dusty old box of family relics from his grandfather's house in Jamaica. One of them—a carved stone wrapped in black twine—had hummed when he touched it.
Hummed like it knew him.
Like it had been waiting.
Now, sitting beneath a bloated orange moon, he could feel the same hum threading through his bones.
"I'm losing it," he muttered.
But he wasn't. Deep down, Malik knew he wasn't crazy.
He was remembering.
He hopped down from the roof and landed softly in the grass. The dew clung to his sneakers as he walked back inside, the screen door creaking behind him. The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that only came when both parents were home, exhausted, and blessedly asleep.
He stepped lightly past his dad's work boots, careful not to knock over the dented umbrella stand, and climbed the stairs back to his room.
The moment he shut the door, the box on his desk whined—soft, low, like wood protesting. The carved stone inside pulsed once, a deep red shimmer curling across its surface.
Malik stared at it.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then he walked forward, slowly, like approaching something half-tamed. He sat in the chair. Opened the box.
The stone waited.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed it, everything changed.
The room shattered. Or maybe it was his mind.
Images slammed into his skull—graveyards that twisted sideways, skies the color of bleeding obsidian, a scream in a language older than sin.
He saw a gate. Giant. Black. Etched in runes made of bone.
He saw chains. A crown. A wolf made of ash and fury.
He saw himself.
Older. Stronger. Wreathed in black fire.
The Malik in the vision raised a hand. His voice thundered:
"Bound not by death, but by purpose!"
And the ground split open.
He snapped back.
Chest heaving. Hands shaking. The desk scorched beneath his palms.
The stone was gone.
No… not gone.
Fused.
His skin still glowed faintly where he'd touched it—just for a second—before fading.
Malik sat back, heart pounding.
Then the whispers began.
Faint. Not in his ears, but inside. Words curling in the pit of his stomach.
Names. Commands. Rites.
One stood out.
Obsidian.
He didn't know what it meant, but it pulled.
He stood, half in a trance, and left the room.
He walked for twenty minutes, heading toward an old lot near Magnolia and Bell.
No one went there. Not anymore. Not since the fire.
The ground was still black, the earth cracked and crusted with ash. It smelled like char and iron, like something had burned too deep to ever fully go out.
Malik stood in the center.
The whispers grew louder.
And he said the name.
"Obsidian."
The wind stopped.
Then the earth moved.
The ground split beneath his feet, a slow, groaning exhale of dirt and soot. Smoke billowed up, thick and cold, wrapping around his legs like it wanted to taste him.
Then—
It rose.
A hound.
No.
A beast.
Ten feet tall at the shoulder, made entirely of bones licked in black fire. Eyes like twin dying stars. Jaws lined with too many teeth. Its presence didn't just intimidate—it violated. The air bent around it.
Malik stumbled back, every survival instinct screaming.
The creature growled, low and long. Not at him. Through him.
And somehow… he understood.
Who calls the first of three?
Malik blinked. "What?"
The hound didn't move, but its voice rang inside his bones.
Who binds the oath of bone? Who calls the pact of ruin? Who breaks the gate and speaks the name that was buried?
Malik didn't know what he was supposed to say.
So he said the truth.
"My name is Malik Graves. And I don't know what I am."
Silence.
Then—
You are the first key.
The beast lowered its massive skull. Fire licked around its feet.
Then rise, Waker. Rise, Bound One. I am Obsidian. And I am yours.
The wind returned.
The ash settled.
The earth healed.
And the hound was gone.
But Malik could feel it.
Inside him.
Like a weight pressed against the soul. Not crushing, not hostile. Just… there.
Waiting.
He made it home just before sunrise.
His mom was already in the kitchen, humming over coffee. She looked up when he entered, brow creased with concern.
"Baby, you look like you wrestled a shadow and lost."
He offered a shaky smile. "Didn't lose."
She gave him that mama-look—equal parts doubt and trust. "Mm. Sit. Eat. You gon' pass out."
He sat.
And for a few minutes, they were just mother and son. Eggs. Grits. Plantain fried just right.
But even as he ate, his fingers trembled. Not from fear.
From recognition.
Later that morning, he met up with Trek and Naomi.
They hung out in the back parking lot of the old Rec Center, skipping class and leaning against an old graffiti-covered wall like they had every other Tuesday.
But Malik couldn't shake it.
And Naomi noticed.
"You okay?" she asked, nudging him. "You've been quiet."
Trek snorted. "Man's probably still trippin' from the lightning storm. You did see that weird-ass bolt hit the cemetery, right?"
Malik hesitated.
"I think…" he began. "I think I'm remembering something I'm not supposed to."
They both looked at him.
"What do you mean?" Naomi asked.
Malik looked at his hands. Then at the shadows stretching along the pavement. Then at the sky, where a bird hovered too long, wings suspended mid-flap.
And then he said it.
"I think I used to be someone else."