Felix Fischer was slumped against the damp, grimy wall of an alleyway, his chest rising and falling unevenly as if even breathing felt like too much effort. The rainwater dripping from the gutter above had gathered into a shallow puddle beside him, reflecting his shadow like a warped phantom on the ground. His mind, however, refused to quiet. Thoughts came in ragged bursts, sharp and unrelenting.
I'm so screwed. What are the odds that this—of all things—had to happen to me? Like my life wasn't already a masterpiece of bad luck.
His hand moved up to his forehead, fingertips brushing sweat-slick skin until he felt it—the hard bump near his hairline. The second his fingers traced over it, his chest tightened.
"Fuck…" he whispered under his breath, his voice brittle. "Why did the horn have to show itself on me? Isn't my life already hard enough?"
He sneered at the empty alley, but there was no one to hear him. The bump was unmistakable. The beginning stage. The budding. The first sign that his body was changing into something else—something inhuman.
Demonkin.
Since the day the rifts split the sky open and monsters poured through, humanity had learned to fear that word. Demonkin weren't quite human anymore, not fully. And everyone knew what happened once the horns started to grow. You got reported. Dragged off. Sent into the rifts as expendable fodder. Few returned. Most didn't at all.
Felix scoffed, trying to sound braver than he felt, and fished inside his coat pocket. His fingers curled around the familiar weight of a cigarette box. He flipped it open, slid one out, and followed it with the lighter that was never far from him. Silver, scuffed from years of use, engraved with the image of a hooded figure shielding a flame with their hands. A small detail, but it had always fascinated him—the candle's little flame forever caught under the hood's shadow.
Felix thumbed the lighter open, ready to flick it, but then he hesitated. His eyes lingered on it, and a memory stirred—a frail hand pressing it into his palm.
His grandfather's hand.
The same night the old man had passed.
Felix swallowed, then slid the cigarette back into the box and closed it with a sharp snap.
He turned the lighter over in his hand and muttered, "You really were the last person who cared, huh?"
A half-hearted smile tugged at his lips, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
He sighed and pushed himself up from the wall. "I should head home."
The thought soured instantly. Home. If it could even be called that. A house filled with silence, cold stares, and words that stung sharper than fists. He dreaded walking back there, dreaded seeing their faces. The only small comfort was the fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—they wouldn't notice the budding. Maybe they'd ignore him like they always did.
Pulling his hood low over his head, Felix stepped out of the alley. The brightness of the city struck him like a slap. Neon signs buzzed overhead. Vendors shouted deals from cluttered stalls. Cars honked while trains rumbled somewhere in the distance. Life carried on, indifferent to his unraveling world.
His eyes caught on a massive screen towering above the street. News headlines scrolled across it, accompanied by an anchor's stern voice:
"Authorities report an increasing number of Demonkin buddings this year, particularly among youths between the ages of sixteen and eighteen…"
Felix's lips twitched into a bitter smile. "Plus one," he muttered, his words lost in the noise of the crowd. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and kept walking until he reached the tram station.
The ride home was a blur.
Now he stood in front of the house, staring at the chipped paint on the door, dragging his feet for as long as he could. But no excuse came to mind strong enough to keep him away forever. Eventually, he exhaled and pushed it open.
Inside, he was greeted by silence. His parents, Maya and Harold, sat in the living room. They looked up at him with the same flat, detached stares they always had—like he was a stranger who'd walked in by mistake.
"I'm home," Felix said quietly, almost wishing they wouldn't hear it.
They didn't answer. Maya returned to flipping through her tablet. Harold kept staring at the muted television. It was the kind of dismissal that hurt more than shouting ever could.
Felix walked past them without another word and headed to the bedroom he shared with his brother. Erwin was sprawled across his bed, crumbs dotting his shirt, a half-empty soda can tipped over on the nightstand. His snores rattled the walls.
"Slob," Felix muttered under his breath, and went straight for the bathroom.
The mirror was merciless. Felix pulled off his coat, stripped down his shirt, and leaned over the sink. Cold water splashed against his face, running down his sharp cheekbones. His reflection stared back at him: dark brown hair, nearly black under the dim light. Deep blue eyes, tired and sunken. His frame gaunt, shoulders narrow.
He looked like someone fading out of existence.
By the time he showered and pulled on a fresh shirt, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones. He tugged a beanie snugly over his head, hiding the forming horn. If he could just keep it covered, maybe he'd buy himself a few more days.
But then Erwin's hand landed on his shoulder.
"Hey, can you spot me twenty bucks?"
Felix froze, then turned slowly, irritation already boiling. "Seriously? I gave you twenty last week."
His brother shrugged, a smirk on his lips. "Come on. You know they'll just give it back to you."
The manipulation was so blatant it made Felix want to laugh. Instead, his jaw clenched. "No, Erwin. I'm going to bed."
That should've been the end of it. But Erwin's smirk twisted, and before Felix could react, a fist drove into his stomach. Pain exploded through him as the air was forced out of his lungs. He staggered, fell to the floor, gasping like a fish pulled from water.
Erwin loomed over him, victorious. His hand reached down, grabbing at Felix's shoulder to haul him up. But instead of pulling him, Erwin's grip snagged the beanie. It slipped off.
The horn was revealed. Small, barely budding, but undeniable.
Felix's first thought: Shit. I thought I'd have more time.
Erwin's eyes widened, fear flashing across his face. His lips parted in disbelief before his voice finally broke through.
"Mom! Dad!"
He bolted toward the door, nearly tripping over a pile of dirty laundry in his haste.
Felix, still on the ground, couldn't help but grin despite the ache in his stomach. What a look. I wonder if he pissed himself. A low chuckle slipped from his throat.
The reaction wasn't surprising. The media loved to paint Demonkin as monsters-in-waiting. People didn't see nuance. They didn't see the truth—that Demonkin had gifts. Powers. Some bent shadows. Some bent light. Some called fire with their bare hands. But alongside the gifts came whispers. Voices that started quiet, then louder. Voices that could hollow you out until there was nothing left but madness. Until you became not Demonkin, but demon.
The sound of footsteps pulled Felix from his thoughts. Heavy. Measured. His parents appeared in the doorway.
Their eyes cut into him, sharp with disgust. His mother leaned close to his father, whispering something he couldn't hear.
Felix hated those looks. He always had. Cold, judgmental, as if his existence ruined the balance of their lives. Tonight, it was worse. Their stares weren't indifferent anymore—they were revolted.
A part of him wanted to scream at them. Another part wanted to laugh. Instead, he just sat there, his chest heaving. At least I won't have to put up with this family much longer.
But that thought twisted too. He'd be trading one hell for another.
His father finally spoke, voice flat but urgent. "How long has it been?"
Felix swallowed. "About a week."
Harold sighed. "We'll have to call this in."
His hand was already fishing for his phone. Felix's stomach dropped.
Minutes later, the sound of boots thundered outside. Soldiers. Their orders barked through megaphones: "Come out with your hands up!"
Felix rose slowly, his knees trembling. He looked at his parents one last time. No worry in their eyes. No sadness. Only annoyance, as if he'd inconvenienced them by being born at all.
Frustration twisted inside him. He scoffed and brushed past them. Fine. Have it your way. I was never part of this family anyway.
The front door creaked open, and blinding headlights cut across his face. Armored vehicles filled the street, rifles raised and trained on him.
Felix lifted his hands, pressing them behind his head. Each step backward toward the soldiers felt like another chain clamping onto him. But under the fear, a single thought burned bright:
I will survive. No matter what I have to do.