The alarm clock on San Langwo's nightstand buzzed with the relentless insistence of a Monday morning that no one wanted. It was 6:45 AM, and the sound cut through the thin veil of sleep like a dull knife. San groaned, his hand fumbling blindly across the cluttered surface—knocking over a half-empty glass of water and a stack of unpaid bills—before finally silencing the thing. He lay there for a moment, staring at the cracked ceiling of his small apartment bedroom, the faint light filtering through the threadbare curtains painting stripes of gray across the plaster. Another day, he thought, the words heavy in his mind like stones in a pocket. Just get through it. For her.
The ache started then, a subtle throb behind his eyes, like the beginning of a migraine that promised to build into something worse. San rubbed his temples, sitting up slowly, his bare feet hitting the cool linoleum floor. He was thirty-two, but some mornings he felt twice that, the weight of years pressing down on shoulders that had carried too much for too long. The apartment was modest, a two-bedroom walk-up in a mid-sized city neighborhood where the rent was affordable but the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors' arguments. It was home, though—Wanli's drawings taped to the fridge door in the kitchen, her stuffed bear propped on the couch like a sentinel. She was his anchor, his reason to swing his legs out of bed every day.
From the kitchen, the clatter of pots and the sizzle of batter on the pan pulled him forward. "Dad! The pancakes are sticking again—come help before they burn!" Wanli's voice rang out, bright and full of that unfiltered energy only a ten-year-old could muster at this hour. San smiled despite the growing pressure in his skull, the sound of her cutting through the fog like sunlight. He shuffled in, his old t-shirt rumpled and pajama pants sagging, to find her perched on a stool at the stove, her braids tied back with mismatched ribbons, flipping a spatula with more enthusiasm than precision. Chocolate chips dotted the bubbling batter, and the smell filled the air—sweet, comforting, a small ritual they'd built over years of mornings like this.
"Look what I did!" she exclaimed, sliding a lopsided pancake onto a plate with a flourish. "Extra chips this time—your favorite." San leaned against the doorframe, ruffling her hair gently. "My little chef in the making. Smells like heaven, queen." He called her that—queen—since the day he'd adopted her, a nickname that started as a joke during one of their first picnics but stuck because it made her eyes light up like stars. She beamed, hopping down to hug his leg: "Sit—coffee's brewing too. I set the timer!" San's heart swelled at the gesture, a simple thing, but in that moment, it was everything. She's growing so fast, he thought, emotions stirring—a quiet pride mixed with a pang of something bittersweet, like watching a favorite book reach its last page too soon. The headache pulsed, but he pushed it down, pouring a mug of black coffee and taking a seat at the scarred wooden table.
"You okay, Dad?" Wanli asked, climbing back onto her stool and eyeing him with that perceptive gaze kids sometimes have, the one that sees through the cracks adults try to hide. She slid the plate in front of him, syrup already drizzled in a heart shape. San took a bite, the sweetness cutting the bitterness in his mouth. "Yeah, just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Headache's being a jerk, but your pancakes fix everything." He winked, and she giggled, the sound like music, easing the throb a fraction. "Promise you'll take your vitamins? Doctor said so." Her bossiness was adorable, a mirror of his own worry for her, and San nodded: "Scout's honor. Now eat up—school bus in twenty."
The phone rang as he chewed, the screen lighting up with "Boss" in bold letters. San sighed, wiping his mouth before answering. "Langwo here." His boss's voice barked through the speaker: "You're late on that report again. Need it by noon—no excuses." San glanced at the clock—7:15 already. "On my way, sir. Traffic's a nightmare this morning." He hung up, rubbing his forehead, the ache sharpening like a needle. Freelance tutoring pays the bills, but this corporate grind… it's killing me slow. Emotions flickered—frustration at the dead-end job, resentment for the hours it stole from Wanli, but underneath, a determined resolve: For her college fund, for the little house someday. Keep going.
Wanli watched him, fork paused mid-air. "Bad news?" she asked, her small face scrunching in concern. San forced a grin: "Nah, just the boss being grumpy. Hey, ace that math test today, and ice cream after school—deal?" Her eyes lit up: "Double scoop if I get an A?" "Triple if you explain the work to me later." She laughed, jumping down to clear her plate: "You're on, Dad! Love you." He pulled her into a quick hug, breathing in the scent of shampoo and chocolate: "Love you more, queen. Be good—tell the bus driver hi for me." She grabbed her backpack, stuffed with books and that rock from her trip, and dashed out, the door clicking shut behind her.
The apartment fell silent then, the kind of quiet that amplifies the thoughts you'd rather ignore. San cleared the table, rinsing dishes under hot water, the steam rising like a fog. The headache built, a pressure behind his eyes that made colors bleed at the edges. Stress, he told himself, drying his hands. Too many late nights grading papers, too little sleep. But as he dressed for work—faded jeans, button-down shirt, tie that never quite straightened right—the whispers started. Faint at first, like radio static in his head: Power… bind… host. He shook it off, grabbing his keys. "Crazy," he muttered, stepping out into the hallway where Miss Ning was sweeping her doorstep. "Morning, Langwo—Wanli off okay?" Her smile was kind, the widow next door who'd become like an aunt. "Bright as ever. Thanks for watching her sometimes." "Anytime, dear. You look tired—eat lunch?" Emotions touched him—gratitude for her care, a loneliness he rarely admitted. "Will do. See you."
The bus ride to the office was a blur of crowded seats and rumbling engine, San's head against the window, the throb syncing with the vibrations. At work, the open-plan cubicle farm awaited—desks piled with papers, phones ringing, colleagues typing away. "Langwo, report?" his boss grunted, not looking up. "Almost done—ten minutes." San sank into his chair, fingers flying over the keyboard, but the whispers grew: Wealth system… integrate. He paused, rubbing his temples: "Not now." A coworker leaned over: "Rough morning? Coffee?" "Yeah, thanks." The small kindness eased the edge, emotions grateful for the human connection in the grind.
By lunch, the storm brewed full—emotions clashing without reason, joy at a finished report mixing with sudden tears for no cause. "Pull it together," he whispered in the bathroom mirror, splashing water on his face. For Wanli—ice cream promise. The afternoon dragged, whispers louder: Strength… bind. Laughter bubbled unbidden in a meeting, colleagues staring. "Sorry—tired," he lied, heart racing. Home by six, Wanli burst in: "A+ on math, Dad!" Pride swelled, pushing the chaos back: "My genius! Triple scoops it is." At the parlor, her delight—chocolate dripping, giggles loud—melted the ache. "Best dad," she said. "Best queen," he replied, emotions pure love, the storm distant for now.
But night fell, apartment quiet, Wanli asleep. San sat on the couch, head in hands, the whispers returning: Host… power. Emotions twisted—fear of madness, curiosity at the promise. "What are you?" he asked the dark. The answer came, systems binding, chaos beginning. Days blurred, room a prison, laughter and tears his only company. Hold for her, the last thought before void.
The days after Wanli left for her field trip stretched into a haze of isolation and unraveling sanity. San locked the door that first afternoon, the click of the deadbolt sounding final, like sealing himself in a tomb. The apartment, usually filled with her chatter and the clink of dishes, felt cavernous, the silence a pressure against his eardrums. He meant to clean, to prep for her return—maybe paint the walls that gray they both loved—but the ache in his head had evolved into something sharper, a needle driving deeper with every heartbeat. *Just rest,* he told himself, sinking onto the couch, the cushions still holding the faint warmth of where she'd sat that morning, reading her comic book aloud in silly voices.
The first tear came without warning, hot and sudden, tracing a path down his cheek as he stared at the coffee table. The memory hit like a physical blow: the amusement park, age three, the blast that stole his family in fifteen breaths. "Happy birthday, Langwo!" his father had boomed, hoisting him onto broad shoulders, the world a carnival of lights and laughter. Then the explosion—gas leak, they said later—screams, debris flying, a metal shard slicing his tiny hand. "Mom! Dad!" he'd wailed, but the beam fell, crushing them beneath. He ran, blood dripping, legs carrying him through chaos while his mind shattered into pieces that never quite fit back together. The sorrow was a black wave, drowning him, his body curling into a ball on the couch, sobs wracking his frame until his throat was raw.
But then, impossibly, laughter bubbled up—manic, uncontrollable, echoing off the walls. "They were laughing too… then gone. Fifteen breaths. Hilarious, right?" He rocked, clutching his sides, the sound foreign and terrifying in his own ears. *What's happening to me?* The question looped, but no answer came, only more tears, more laughter, a pendulum swinging between joy and grief with no rhythm, no reason. He stumbled to the kitchen, hands shaking as he poured water, but the glass slipped, shattering on the tile. "Damn it!" he shouted, then laughed again, the sound cracking. The whispers started then, faint at first, like voices from a radio in another room: Bind as host… power infinite… wealth system acquired.
"No," he growled, gripping the counter, knuckles white. "Get out of my head." But one latched, codes flooding his mind like ink in water, twisting, corrupting. Another bound—Strength gu—integrate—clashing with the first, distorting into something new. "Stop—please!" he begged, sliding to the floor amid the glass shards, blood from a cut mixing with tears. Visions flashed: a life where he was rich, Wanli in a big house, safe; another where he lost her to the same shadows that took his family. "Not her," he snarled, punching the cabinet, wood splintering. Emotions peaked—ecstasy at the surge of power promised, terror at the erosion of self, love for Wanli the only thread holding him together.
Neighbors knocked on day two, Miss Ning's voice muffled through the door: "Langwo? Heard crashing—you okay?" Another neighbor: "Open up, man—we're worried." He pressed his back to the door, heart pounding: *Can't let them see this. Can't scare Wanli when she calls.* "Fine!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Just… dropped something. Go away!" They lingered, murmuring, then left food outside—soup, bread, a note: Call if you need us. He ignored it, the smell turning his stomach, hunger a distant concept. The systems hummed louder, promising: Protect her with this. Hope flickered, fragile: *If it's real… I could keep her safe forever.* But corruption twisted the thought, laughter following: "Safe? You're breaking, Langwo!"
He paced, clawing at the walls, nails breaking, blood streaking plaster in jagged lines. "For Wanli… endure," he whispered, the words a mantra against the storm. Day four, the whispers solidified: Absorb or break. He screamed, slamming his fist into the mirror, glass exploding, his reflection fractured into a dozen void-eyed strangers. "Who are you?" he demanded of the shards, but only laughter answered, his own voice mocking. The body weakened, food rotting on the counter, sleep fleeting in fits of sobs and giggles. Seven days in, exhaustion claimed him, eyes shifting to obsidian beauty, holding nothing. He collapsed, the room a prison of scratches and silence, the void swallowing all.
Three weeks unconscious, body wasting to skeletal. Pain awoke him—headache a sledgehammer, bones cracking, reforming in agony. "Make it end," he gasped, rolling on the floor, veins burning like acid. Four months of torment followed, muscles tearing and knitting, screams silent in his throat. "For her… hold on." The thought anchored him, love a faint spark in the dark. He fainted again, half an hour of peace before the banging started: "Dad! It's me—Wanli!" Her voice broke with sobs, piercing the void. Neighbors: "Break it down!" The door splintered, light flooding in, her small body throwing itself onto his frail frame: "Wake up—don't leave me!" Emotions surged even in the haze—love pure, regret a knife twist. The rescue blurred, her tears soaking his shirt, the world fading again as sirens wailed.