Andrew sat on the cold metal bench outside the apartment complex, elbows resting on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. The sky above was a pale wash of early morning light, the city still wrapped in its slumber. A few birds hopped along the rusted railing nearby, chirping softly, unbothered by the chaos of yesterday's violence. Andrew watched them without truly seeing them, his mind trapped in a tangled web of thoughts he couldn't untangle.
Derick stood beside him, hands deep in his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable, until Derick finally broke it.
"So," Derick began casually, voice even but carrying an edge of seriousness, "what if you beat them?"
Andrew didn't answer. The question hung in the air, not accusatory, not impressed—just honest. It was a challenge, a question that cut straight through the surface of things.
"What then?" Derick pressed. "You win. They run. You walk home."
He glanced at Andrew, waiting for some reaction. "Does that fix anything?"
Andrew remained silent, the silence thick around him. His jaw clenched as he stared at a crack in the pavement that split and rejoined like it couldn't quite decide where to go. His mind replayed yesterday's events—images of fists clenched, voices raised, fear and anger blending into chaos.
Derick sighed quietly, a soft breath that seemed to carry years of understanding. He broke the silence again, voice gentle but purposeful.
"I looked through your photo albums last night."
Andrew's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "You did what?"
Derick nodded once, calmly. "Your mom keeps them in the hall closet. From when you were little."
Andrew looked away, discomfort creeping into his features. Memories surfaced—smiles at birthday parties, trips to the beach, school plays. But as he looked at the photos, one thing was clear: not many with friends.
"There were a lot of pictures of you," Derick said softly. "School events. Birthdays. Trips."
He paused, studying Andrew's face. "But not many with friends."
Andrew's fingers curled slightly into fists, a subtle sign of tension.
"Because I moved a lot?" Andrew guessed, voice tight.
Derick shook his head. "No, that's not it."
"Then why?" Andrew pressed, voice strained. "Why aren't there more?"
"Because people can tell you're different," Derick explained carefully. "Even when they don't understand how."
Andrew's brow furrowed. "I never did anything to them."
"I know," Derick said. "That's the problem."
Andrew looked away again, frustration flickering in his eyes.
"They don't fear what you do," Derick continued softly. "They fear what you might do."
The words hit Andrew harder than he expected. He swallowed, trying to process it all.
Derick shifted, leaning against the bench, closer now but still respecting his space. His voice was quiet but firm.
"You've always held yourself back," he said. "Smiled. Stayed calm. Tried to make things easy for others."
A faint, humorless smile crossed his face. "But people can sense restraint. And restraint scares them more than anger."
Andrew stared ahead, memories rushing in—awkward silences, people stepping back without realizing it, invitations that never came.
"So what," Andrew muttered. "I'm just supposed to accept that?"
"No," Derick replied immediately. "That's not what I'm saying."
Andrew turned to look at him, searching his face.
Derick met his gaze, eyes serious. "You've been trying to fit in with people who were never built to stand beside you."
Andrew's breath hitched slightly.
"If you want friends," Derick continued, "real ones—you don't look for people who are comfortable."
"You look for people who are strong."
Andrew frowned. "Strong how?"
Derick's eyes sharpened. "Strong enough not to be afraid of you."
"Strong enough to walk forward instead of stepping back."
Andrew was silent for a long moment, the weight of the words settling over him.
"…Like you?" Andrew finally asked.
Derick chuckled softly, a dry, knowing sound. "I said strong. Not stupid."
Andrew almost managed a small smile, almost.
Derick straightened, the moment shifting. His tone grew more serious.
"You don't need to prove yourself by beating people," he said. "But don't pretend you're something you're not, either."
He placed a hand briefly on Andrew's shoulder—a firm, grounding touch.
"The world is already moving toward you," Derick said. "The only choice you have is whether you move with it… or let it crash into you."
Andrew looked up at the sky, the clouds drifting lazily overhead. For the first time, the warning in Derick's words didn't feel like a threat; it felt like preparation.
There was a pause. Derick's gaze drifted to the street, silent for a moment longer.
"Tell me something," he said suddenly. "What is your life right now?"
Andrew furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"
Derick turned toward him, voice gentle but insistent.
"Wake up. Go to school. Come home."
A pause. "Repeat."
Andrew hesitated, then nodded slightly.
"You have two friends," Derick said. "Good kids. Loyal. But that's it."
His tone was factual, devoid of mockery.
"No dreams you talk about. No direction you're moving toward."
Andrew shifted, uncomfortable.
"That's normal," he said defensively.
Derick shook his head gently. "No, that's quiet. There's a difference."
Andrew looked away, feeling exposed.
"Nothing really changes for you," Derick continued. "Days pass. Weeks pass."
Then he added softly, "The only time something happens… is when there's a fight."
The words struck a nerve. Andrew clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to speak.
"That's not true," he said quickly. "I don't look for fights."
"I know," Derick said. "They come to you."
Andrew's fists clenched tightly.
"Think about it," Derick pressed. "The knife years ago. The school wall. The alley."
He tapped the bench lightly with a knuckle. "When does your life actually move?"
Andrew opened his mouth to respond but found he couldn't. The silence grew thick.
Derick sighed, voice softer now.
"You're not bored because your life is empty," he said. "You're bored because you're living at a fraction of what you are."
Andrew finally looked at him, eyes searching.
"That doesn't mean I want to fight," he said quietly. "I don't like hurting people."
Derick met his gaze, unwavering.
"Then don't," he said simply. "But don't lie to yourself either."
He leaned back, eyes lifting to the sky. His voice was calm but serious.
"Some people are meant for quiet paths," Derick continued. "School. Work. Home. Peace."
Then he looked back at Andrew, voice low and steady.
"You were never one of them."
Andrew swallowed hard, feeling a tightness in his chest—not with fear, but with recognition.
"So what am I supposed to do?" he asked.
Derick hesitated, then finally spoke.
"You find purpose," he said. "Not comfort. Not routine."
"And you find people who don't disappear when things get heavy."
He stood, dusting off his coat.
"Strong people," he added. "Not because they can fight—but because they don't run when they see who you really are."
Andrew sat there long after Derick turned away, the silence settling over him like a heavy shroud.
For the first time, the idea scared him.
And for the first time—the quiet felt unbearable.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed softly in his hand. He frowned, glancing down. The screen flickered—static rippling across the glass—then steadied again. Andrew was about to shrug it off when the streetlights above them dimmed, brightened, then dimmed again.
Derick stiffened. His eyes narrowed as devices around them began to glitch—screens flickering, alarms chirping and dying mid-sound. A woman across the street stared at her tablet as lines tore through the display. A passing car slowed, its dashboard flashing erratically. Somewhere nearby, an alarm chirped and then went silent.
Andrew's phone flickered again. This time, it went black.
"So…?" Andrew murmured. "Is this—"
Every screen lit up at once—phones, billboards, store displays, traffic panels—across the city, across the world.
In corporate towers, government offices, civilian homes, underground hideouts where angels of death watched from the shadows.
All devices glitching in unison.
Then—black.
Total silence.
No signal. No noise. No static.
For half a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then a symbol burned onto every screen.
A massive, coiled emblem—dark, ancient, unmistakable.
**LEVIATHAN**
Andrew felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Beside him, Derick had gone pale. "No…" he whispered.
Andrew turned sharply. "You know this?"
Derick hesitated, eyes locked on the glowing symbol, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened.
"So he's come," Derick said hoarsely.
His voice was no longer calm.
"It's too early," he muttered. "We're not ready."
Andrew's pulse spiked. "Derick—who is that?"
Derick swallowed hard. "Our worst nightmare," he said. "The kind that doesn't announce war."
The Leviathan symbol rippled once more.
The screen darkened again.
Then a voice emerged—calm, clear, everywhere at once.
"May I have your attention."
Andrew felt the world tilt.
And somewhere deep inside him,