Morning sunlight crept across the bedroom floor, warm and golden.
Where it touched, wisps of black mist that had lingered in the air throughout the night dissolved like shadows fleeing the dawn. The light seemed to pierce through some invisible barrier, driving back whatever presence had filled the room.
City sounds filtered through the window. Traffic. Distant voices. The normal chaos of New York waking up.
Nolan's eyes opened slowly, consciousness returning in stages.
He inhaled sharply, face contorting with discomfort. His hand rose to his temple, fingers pressing hard against the side of his head. A sharp, stabbing pain pulsed deep in his brain, each throb making him wince.
He sat up carefully, moving like someone much older than his years. Cross-legged on the bed, he stared at nothing in particular, confusion written across his features.
"A headache?" he muttered. "How the hell do I have a headache?"
The throbbing continued, relentless.
With a frustrated sigh, Nolan climbed out of bed and crossed to his desk. He rummaged through the accumulated clutter, papers and old receipts and random objects he'd never bothered organizing. Finally, his fingers closed around a medicine bottle.
Painkillers. Still within the expiration date, barely.
He shook several pills into his palm, tossed them into his mouth, and chewed them dry. The bitter taste made him grimace, but he swallowed them down without water.
Several minutes passed. The medication kicked in gradually, dulling the sharp edges of pain until they faded entirely.
Nolan exhaled slowly, relief washing through him. A faint smile touched his lips.
He stood and began moving through a series of stretches and light exercises, working the stiffness from his muscles. Within minutes, sweat beaded on his back.
Satisfied, he left the bedroom.
In the living room, morning light streamed through the kitchen windows, painting everything in warm tones.
His aunt sat on the sofa, dressed entirely in black. A somber dress, appropriate for a funeral. She held a small mirror in one hand and a comb in the other, carefully arranging her short hair. A moisturizing mask covered her face, white against her skin.
She heard the bedroom door and looked up, the mask crinkling slightly with the movement.
Her eyes found Nolan, still in yesterday's clothes, rolling his neck to work out the kinks.
Her expression shifted immediately. Disapproval replaced her earlier concentration.
She set the mirror on her knees and raised the comb like a conductor's baton, her voice sharp. "Boy, what time do you think it is? I was about to come wake you. Why are you only getting up now? Go wash up, immediately."
Nolan glanced at the wall clock. His face showed mild confusion.
"Aunt, it's only nine. We've got plenty of time. The funeral isn't until this afternoon..."
His mild protest died as his aunt ripped the mask from her face with barely restrained irritation.
She pointed the comb at him like a weapon, her expression stern in a way he rarely saw.
"Have you forgotten everything I taught you about proper behavior? This is a funeral, Nolan. Your friend Mike's brother has died. This requires respect, solemnity, preparation. We don't show up casual and late like we're going to a movie."
The aunt who normally indulged Nolan's eccentricities, who let him get away with minor rebellions, was nowhere in sight. This version of her was serious, almost harsh.
Nolan felt the pain stirring again in his skull, a warning throb. He immediately raised both hands in surrender, the gesture almost comically desperate.
"You're absolutely right. I'm sorry. I'll go clean up right now."
He took a deep breath and offered his most apologetic expression. "I was wrong, Aunt. Give me five minutes."
Before she could launch into a full lecture, Nolan bolted for the bathroom.
Five minutes later, he emerged refreshed but still casually dressed. A black athletic outfit, the closest thing to formal wear in his limited wardrobe.
His aunt had put away the comb. She studied him with narrowed eyes, taking in his appearance from head to toe.
Finally, she sighed and rolled her eyes. "You're growing so fast I can barely keep up. And your fashion sense is hopeless. But I suppose this will have to do."
She stood, smoothing her dress. "Let's go."
Nolan smiled and offered his arm with exaggerated courtesy, bending slightly at the waist. "Dear Aunt, after you?"
She took his arm, unable to suppress a small smile despite her earlier irritation. Then she tilted her head to look up at him, her expression turning serious again.
"I'm warning you now. You will behave appropriately at this funeral. No jokes, no wandering attention, no embarrassing me. Understood?"
"Understood completely. I promise to be a model of proper behavior."
"Good."
Two o'clock in the afternoon found them standing in Harlem's public cemetery.
The funeral for Mike's brother proceeded on schedule, attended by a modest crowd. Friends of the family, some neighbors from the community, a handful of relatives. Nothing elaborate. A working-class farewell for a working-class death.
Nolan stood with his aunt beneath the shade of a large tree, both of them silent and somber.
Mike's mother's sobs cut through the quiet, raw and heartbroken. The sound was painful to hear, the grief of a parent who'd outlived her child.
Near her, Big Mouth Mike held himself together through visible effort. He kept one arm around his mother, offering comfort even as his own face threatened to crumble. His eyes were red, his jaw tight, his whole body rigid with the strain of not breaking down.
Nolan watched this and felt something heavy settle in his chest. His expression remained carefully neutral, respectful, but his mind churned.
Before the ceremony began, Mike had pulled him aside and shared some news. The kind of news that made Nolan's hands clench into fists.
The federal government had ordered the case closed. The NYPD, the FBI, all the relevant agencies had received their instructions. The investigation into Jerry's death and the missing children was over.
Not solved. Closed.
All of it, every victim, every unanswered question, every suspicious circumstance, had been wrapped up in a cold official document and filed away. Case closed due to lack of evidence. Or insufficient resources. Or whatever bureaucratic excuse they'd settled on.
The families of the deceased received compensation payments. Humanitarian aid, they called it. Hush money, more honestly. Take the check, sign away your right to ask questions, and move on with your life.
Mike's mother was in no state to fight. Her mental health had deteriorated, and the medical bills were piling up. The financial pressure was crushing them.
So Mike, just an ordinary person with no power or connections, had accepted the government's insulting terms. What choice did he have? You can't fight the federal government when you can barely afford groceries.
The whole thing left a bitter taste in Nolan's mouth.
Half an hour later, the ceremony concluded. The priest finished his prayers, made his final blessings, and stepped back.
The crowd began dispersing, offering quiet condolences to the family before drifting away.
Mike approached Nolan and his aunt, extending an invitation to join the family for dinner. A small gathering back at the house, a chance to share memories and support.
Both Nolan and his aunt politely declined. They could see the exhaustion in Mike's face, the way he held himself together through sheer stubbornness. The last thing he needed was to play host.
They said their goodbyes. Mike accepted their decision with a nod, too tired to insist.
Nolan watched him walk away, shoulders hunched, one arm still supporting his mother. The sight of that bent back, that defeated posture, pulled at something in Nolan's chest.
He sighed quietly.
Then he turned to his aunt, studying her profile for a moment before speaking.
"Aunt." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Have you ever thought about leaving? Not just New York. I mean this whole country."
The question seemed to come from nowhere. His aunt blinked, startled.
She raised her chin and fixed him with a look that was equal parts amused and suspicious. Her eyes were still slightly red from the emotional afternoon.
"What's this about? You think just because you've grown up big and strong, you can abandon your poor old aunt? Getting ready to leave me behind?"
Her tone was light, teasing, but Nolan could hear the genuine curiosity underneath. And maybe a hint of concern.
Before he could clarify, she reached out and pinched his muscular arm with her fingers. The gesture was more affectionate than punishing.
Nolan felt nothing, his enhanced body barely registering the pressure. But he made an exaggerated face of pain anyway, playing along.
"No, no, nothing like that," he said quickly, backpedaling. "I was just asking. Theoretical question. Forget I said anything."
He manufactured a bright smile. "To make up for my poor choice of topics, how about I take you out? Movie and dinner, your choice. Anywhere you want."
His aunt's expression softened immediately. The smile that spread across her face was genuine, the earlier tension forgotten.
"Well, since you're offering, I'm not going to refuse." She patted his arm with obvious satisfaction. "Come on, boy. I know exactly where the most expensive restaurant in Harlem is. Let's see how serious you are about treating your aunt right."
She started walking, tugging him along by the arm.
Nolan let himself be led, grateful that she'd let the subject drop. The question had been a mistake, too abrupt, too revealing. He'd have to be more careful about what he said around her.
But the thought didn't leave him. Getting his aunt somewhere safe, somewhere away from what was coming. That was a problem he'd need to solve eventually.
Just not today.
Today, he'd take her to an overpriced restaurant and let her order whatever she wanted. It was the least he could do.