# Chapter 4: Homecoming Shadows
I paced the cracked sidewalk, frustration boiling inside me like a storm trapped in a bottle. My body ached from the fight, my mind a chaotic whirlwind. Nothing felt solid. Who was I? David from a forgotten Earth, or Divine, this body's original owner? The memories flickered like dying embers—fragments of a life I hadn't lived, yet somehow owned.
The city around me pulsed with an eerie, sanctified menace. Towering buildings of polished white stone rose like cathedrals, their surfaces alive with scrolling holographic scriptures. Golden letters drifted across the facades, serene yet commanding:
**PURIFICATION IN PROGRESS**
**REPORT CORRUPTION LEVELS IMMEDIATELY**
**THE PURE SHALL INHERIT THE NEW WORLD**
It looked like something out of a dystopian fever dream—a world where holiness and oppression wore the same mask. Cleaners like me were the disposable blades keeping the "corruption" at bay, yet the streets were filled with ordinary people hurrying along, heads bowed, as if afraid the sky itself might judge them.
I rubbed my temples, trying to force the memories to settle. That's when I heard it.
"Divine!"
The voice cracked with raw emotion. I turned, and a woman—middle-aged, beautiful in a weary way—was sprinting toward me. Tears streamed down her cheeks, catching the artificial light like scattered diamonds. Before I could react, she threw her arms around me, pulling me into a fierce embrace that smelled of home-cooked spices and faint antiseptic.
"My boy," she sobbed into my shoulder. "My precious boy. I thought… I thought I'd lost you too."
Mom.
The word hit me like a revelation. Not my mom—not the one from my old life—but *this* body's mother. And yet, the warmth of her hug cracked something open inside me. For a fleeting moment, the confusion quieted.
I stood frozen, arms limp at my sides. What was I supposed to do? Say? The memories offered nothing solid, just vague impressions of love, worry, arguments.
Before I could muster a response, rapid footsteps pounded closer.
"Big brother!"
A girl—no older than sixteen—barreled into us, her fist connecting with my arm in a punch that was more desperate than angry. She was smaller than me, with the same sharp cheekbones and stormy gray eyes that I'd glimpsed in a puddle's reflection earlier.
"You idiot!" she yelled, voice breaking. "Why do you always do this? Sneaking off without a word, coming back half-dead! Do you have any idea how terrified we were? Mom couldn't sleep, couldn't eat—I thought this time you wouldn't come back!"
Her words poured out in a torrent, each one laced with pain. She hit me again, lighter this time, then buried her face in my chest as sobs wracked her body.
I stared down at her, speechless. *Sharon.* The name surfaced unbidden. My little sister.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words coming out hoarse. I didn't know what else to say. The guilt wasn't entirely mine, but it felt real all the same.
Our mother gently pulled Sharon back, cupping her daughter's tear-streaked face. "Sharon, enough. He's home now. That's what matters."
Sharon glared through her tears. "He always puts himself in danger for us! This world isn't about dying heroically, Mom. It's about surviving. I already lost Dad… I can't lose him too." Her voice dropped to a broken whisper. "I won't survive it."
The words pierced me deeper than any monster's claw. In my previous life, I'd been alone—no parents, no siblings, just a string of foster homes and empty apartments. Family had been a concept I'd watched from the outside, like a movie I was never cast in.
But here… here was something real. Raw. Messy.
Without thinking, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around both of them. Sharon stiffened at first, then melted into the hug. My mother's hand found the back of my head, stroking my hair the way only mothers know how.
"I'm home, Mom," I said softly, my voice thicker than I expected. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for worrying you both. I… I should be protecting you, not making things harder."
Mom pulled back just enough to look at me. Her eyes—tired, kind, unbreakable—searched mine. She cupped my face in her warm hands.
"Listen to me, Divine," she said, her voice steady despite the tears. "You are my son. My firstborn. You don't need to carry the weight of the world to prove your worth to us. Just come home. Every time. Promise me you'll come home."
There was no accusation in her words, only love so profound it made my chest ache. I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
A sleek black car pulled up then, its engine purring softly. The door swung open, and a broad-shouldered man in his late forties leapt out. He had a soldier's build, scarred hands, and a grin that lit up his whole face.
"Diviiiiine!" he bellowed, charging forward and scooping me into a bear hug that lifted me clean off the ground. "You crazy kid! I heard you were at Ikeja—I thought for sure you'd be monster chow this time!"
"Uncle Joseph," I managed, the name coming naturally as another memory fragment slotted into place.
Sharon's expression soured instantly. She crossed her arms and turned to our mother. "Mom. Why did you call *him*? He's the reason Divine keeps throwing himself into Cleaner work! Always filling his head with stories about Dad, about 'honor' and 'vengeance'—"
Mom smoothly ignored her, walking toward the car with practiced grace. "Come along, children. Let's get home before the curfew drones start patrolling."
"Mom! You're ignoring me, aren't you?" Sharon shouted after her, stomping her foot.
Joseph laughed, clapping me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth. "Your sister's got fire, eh? Just like her old man." He winked, but there was something shadowed behind his eyes.
As we piled into the car—Mom upfront, Sharon sulking beside me, Joseph driving—I stole glances at them. This family… they were mine now, whether I deserved them or not. In my past life, I'd have killed for even a fraction of this warmth.
The drive took us out of the city's dense core, past towering purification spires and checkpoints manned by white-armored enforcers. Eventually, the buildings thinned, giving way to rolling hills dotted with isolated homes. Ours sat alone on a gentle rise—a modest two-story house with a wraparound porch, solar panels glinting on the roof, and a small garden out front. Not luxurious, but safe. Comfortable. The kind of place where laughter was supposed to live.
Inside, the scent of herbs and fresh bread enveloped me. Two more girls—younger sisters—peeked out from the kitchen doorway.
"Divine's home!" the older of the two squealed. She looked about twelve, with braids and a gap-toothed grin.
The youngest, maybe eight, hid behind her sister but waved shyly.
Great. Three little sisters. The old me would've groaned at the thought of so much estrogen in one house. But watching them rush forward to hug my legs, chattering about how they'd saved me the last slice of honey cake… something in me softened.
Dinner was a lively affair. Mom had prepared a feast—roast poultry with root vegetables, fresh bread, and some kind of spiced stew that made my mouth water. Uncle Joseph dominated the conversation, regaling the younger girls with exaggerated tales of Cleaner exploits (carefully omitting the gorier details).
Sharon sat across from me, picking at her food and shooting glares at Joseph whenever he praised my "bravery."
Eventually, the question came.
"So, Divine," Joseph said, leaning forward with a serious expression. "What happened out there at Ikeja? Word is a Class-3 breach. Not many rookies walk away from those."
The table quieted. Even the little ones sensed the shift.
I recounted the battle as best I could without revealing too much—waking up disoriented, the creature's terrifying speed, the desperate fight, the strange surge of power that let me turn the tide. I left out the part about being someone else entirely.
When I finished, silence hung heavy.
Mom's hand trembled as she reached for mine. "You're never going back out there," she said quietly. "Promise me."
Joseph frowned but said nothing.
After dinner, Mom pressed a vial of pain-relieving tonic into my hand and ordered me to bed. "You need rest, sweetheart. Real rest."
I was heading toward the stairs when I noticed it—a framed photograph on the living room wall. A man in Cleaner gear, helmet tucked under one arm, smiling proudly. He had my face. Older, weathered, but unmistakably related.
My father.
The question slipped out before I could stop it. "Mom… what was Dad like?"
The room froze.
Mom's teacup clattered against the saucer. Sharon's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Even Joseph looked away.
The youngest sister whimpered.
Mom's voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "Divine. I've told you before. We don't speak his name in this house. Not anymore."
The pain in her words was a living thing—grief sharpened to a blade after years of wielding it.
I wanted to push, to demand answers. Who was he? How did he die? Why did vengeance burn so brightly in this body's memories?
But one look at their faces—shattered, haunted—and I swallowed the questions.
"I'm sorry," I murmured. "I won't ask again."
As I climbed the stairs to my room, the weight of two lives pressed down on me.
One thing was clear: whatever happened to my—this body's—father, it had broken something fundamental in this family.
And somewhere out there, in the shadows of this sanctified dystopia, the truth waited.
I wasn't sure I was ready to face it.
But I had a feeling it would come looking for me first.