The phone buzzed in Ace's hand, an angry hornet trapped against his palm. He had barely swiped to answer when Marco's voice detonated through the speaker, raw and incredulous.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Ace was lying flat on his mattress, staring at the familiar water stain on the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head. The chaos Marco was describing felt galaxies away from this quiet, curtained space.
"You just had to pick a fight with Zach Miller, didn't you? In a park? On camera?"
Ace sighed, a sound of pure, weary exasperation. He pulled the phone back from his ear. "Alright, dial it back. You're acting like I ran him over with a truck. He's fine."
"RELAX?" Marco's pitch climbed another octave. "Bro, open your eyes. Check the school group chat. The neighborhood feed. It's everywhere. The video is everywhere. Zach's threatening to skin you alive. Literally. Those were his exact words!"
Ace turned his head listlessly, eyes flicking to the phone screen. Notifications cascaded down—a waterfall of digital panic. He tapped the school chat icon.
The video, shaky and vertical, was pinned at the top. The preview frame was of Zach stumbling. He scrolled.
Zach Miller: I SEE YOU, ELDREN. YOU'RE A DEAD MAN WALKING.
Unknown Number: enjoy your last week breathing.
Kayla R.: OMG did Ace Eldren actually fight Zach???
Jason T.: is he stupid or brave???
Ben S.: zach's gonna feed him his own teeth lol
Ace snorted, a dry puff of air. "He won't kill me. He's too in love with his own reputation to actually catch a murder charge."
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" Marco was practically vibrating with frustration. "Okay, fine! Maybe he won't literally murder you, but he will mess you up. Permanently. Zach isn't some solo act, Ace. He's got a crew. And his older brothers? They're not playing schoolyard games. They've got records. They do real damage."
Ace rolled onto his side, facing the bland wall of his temporary room. "They're wannabes, Marco. Kids playing dress-up with daddy's money and a bad attitude. It's all for show."
"You don't get it," Marco's voice dropped, losing its hysterical edge for something colder, more fearful. "They don't need to be mob bosses to ruin you. One sucker punch with a roll of quarters in the fist. One 'accidental' shove down the concrete stairs. One ambush in a dark alley after a party. Boom. Concussion. Broken nose. Shattered knee. That's it. Your life changes because you wanted to play hero over a few bucks."
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, across the line. Ace could hear Marco's ragged breathing.
Finally, Ace spoke, his voice low and measured. "Why are you this freaked out? Really."
"Because you fought him over money," Marco snapped, the words brittle. "A stupid stack of bills. If you were that hard up, you could've just asked me, man. I would've lent it to you. Instead, you turned yourself into public enemy number one for what? A principle?"
Ace pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress to sit. The casual slouch was gone. His tone hardened, forged into something unyielding. "It wasn't about the money."
Marco scoffed, the sound crackling with static. "Then enlighten me. What grand cause was worth painting a target on your back?"
"They took it from him," Ace said, each word deliberate. "They cornered him. They made him hand it over every week. That kid didn't have a choice. You think that's just 'a few bucks'? You think that's okay?"
"That kid isn't worth dying over!" Marco shot back instantly, the response so automatic it was chilling.
Ace didn't answer right away. The silence this time was charged, electric with disappointment.
"I'm not just gonna stand there and watch," Ace said, his voice quiet but ironclad. "Not when it's happening right in front of me. Not when someone's getting broken down like that."
"Yeah, and now you're the one getting broken!" Marco's voice was strained, almost pleading. "Congrats, hero. You traded his problem for yours, and yours is gonna be a lot bloodier."
Ace exhaled sharply through his nose. "You're overreacting."
"No," Marco corrected, his voice flat with certainty. "You're underestimating. This isn't a superhero movie where you beat up the bully and everyone claps. This is the real world. Zach doesn't fight fair. He fights to win, and he doesn't care how."
Ace almost laughed at that. The real world. Marco's real world was social hierarchies and after-school detentions. Ace's real world had claws in the dark and laughter that wasn't human.
"Just… don't come to school this week," Marco continued, his tone shifting into desperate negotiation. "Please. Stay at your grandma's or whatever. Lay low. I'll… I'll try to talk to Zach. See if I can smooth things over. Maybe he'll cool off."
Ace glanced again at the flood of messages on his screen. His name, repeated like a curse. The grainy video, a monument to a moment of decision. The anonymous threats, the spectators choosing sides. It was all so small. So pathetically human.
"Fine," Ace said at last, the word a concession to his friend's fear, not to the threat itself. "I won't come. Happy?"
Marco let out a long, shuddering breath, the relief palpable. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… that's better. Just… don't do anything else stupid, okay? Don't go looking for trouble."
Ace's lips quirked in a faint, humorless smirk. "No promises."
They hung up.
Ace dropped the phone onto the thin mattress beside him. It continued to buzz and light up, an insistent, glowing rectangle in the dim room. He ignored it. To everyone at school, this was the biggest drama of the semester. A viral fight. A shifting of the social tectonic plates.
To Ace?
It was background noise. A skirmish. The threats felt weightless, hollow echoes of the true dangers he knew.
He let his head fall back, eyes tracing the stain on the ceiling again. It looked less like a cloud now and more like a spreading bruise.
Worth it, he decided, the thought a quiet bedrock beneath the chaos. He pictured Carl's awkward, grateful smile from their walk. The way he'd talked about music without stuttering. That small spark of a person emerging from the shadows was worth a thousand Zach Millers.
The metallic creak of the front gate sounded from outside. Then, light, familiar footsteps on the porch. A pause. The front door opened and closed with a soft click.
A few moments later, the curtain to his nook twitched. Carl's face appeared in the gap, hesitant, like a visitor to a shrine he wasn't sure he was allowed to enter.
"Hey, Ace," Carl said softly.
Ace's entire demeanor shifted. The cool detachment melted away, replaced by an easy grin. He sat up straighter. "Yo. What's up? Survive the brain-melting?"
Carl stepped fully inside, his hands tucked into the pouch of his hoodie. "Uh… you wanna play some games? Later? I have a new RPG. It's… it's really good."
The offer, so simple and normal, caught Ace off guard in the best way. His grin widened, becoming genuine. "Yeah," he said, the word carrying real warmth. "Yeah, that sounds awesome."
Carl seemed to physically relax, the tension in his shoulders easing. "After dinner?"
"Deal."
Carl nodded and turned to slip back out. But as he did, Ace's eyes dropped to his hands, and a connection fired in his brain. He reached under his pillow, his fingers finding the folded stack of bills.
"Hey, hold up," Ace said, his voice casual, almost offhand.
Carl turned back, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"
Ace stood and crossed the small space in two strides. He took Carl's hand, turned it palm up, and placed the money squarely in it. "You dropped this earlier. By the gate, I think."
Carl froze.
His fingers, which had been lax, clenched instantly into a fist around the cash, his knuckles bleaching white. His eyes weren't on Ace; they were locked onto the corner of the top bill—a specific, faded blue ink smudge, a tiny flaw he undoubtedly knew by heart.
Ace saw the recognition flash, then shut down. He kept his face carefully neutral. "What's wrong?"
Carl swallowed, his throat working. "I… I didn't bring any money with me today."
Ace feigned a slight frown. "Yeah, you did. This is yours. I saw it fall."
Carl opened his mouth, the denial ready on his lips, then stopped. The fight went out of him in a slow, defeated exhale. His shoulders slumped forward.
"…They took it again," Carl whispered. It wasn't a question. It was the resigned acknowledgement of a recurring natural disaster.
Ace felt something cold and sharp settle in his own chest. "They?" he asked, even though he'd stared into their leader's smug face hours ago.
Carl just nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Some guys. From… around. Not even from my school." The shame in his voice was a physical thing.
Ace kept his voice soft, non-judgmental. "That sucks, man."
Carl hesitated, then, with movements that seemed to cost him effort, slowly folded the bills into a tight, small rectangle and stuffed them deep into his jeans pocket. He didn't look at Ace. "Thanks," he mumbled.
He didn't ask how Ace got it back. He didn't wonder if there'd been a confrontation. That silent acceptance—the assumption that this was just a temporary return of stolen property, not a victory—said more about Carl's world than any explanation ever could.
Carl left, the curtain falling back into place with a soft swish.
Ace stood alone in the center of the tiny room, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
***
Dinner was a quiet, strained affair. The ghost of Sunny's outburst still haunted the table, and Carl was quieter than usual, picking at his food. Ace played his part—the polite, slightly bored guest. He caught Sophie watching him with a worried, knowing look, but she said nothing.
Later, the blue glow of a computer monitor bathed Carl's room in an otherworldly light. Ace was planted rigidly in the desk chair, a game controller feeling alien and clumsy in his hands. Carl hovered at his shoulder, a livewire of nervous energy.
"No—wait—the red one! Shoot the red one!" Carl yelped, pointing at the screen.
Ace's thumb spasmed on the stick. "WHICH RED ONE? THERE ARE SIX!"
"THE ONE THAT'S SHOOTING AT YOU!"
Ace mashed buttons. His on-screen avatar performed a spectacular pirouette and then evaporated in a pixelated explosion.
Carl dissolved into helpless laughter, the kind that made him double over and clutch his sides, his earlier tension completely forgotten. His laugh was unexpectedly loud and free, cracking at the edges.
"Oh my god," he wheezed, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. "You're… you're actually terrible. How are you this bad?"
"I am NOT bad!" Ace protested, a real grin spreading across his face at Carl's joy. "The controller's broken! It has a vendetta!"
Cedric's voice, dry and amused, crackled through the headset Ace was wearing. "Ace, my guy, did you just try to heal the enemy? I saw that. You opened the menu and selected 'Potion' while staring at the boss."
"It was a tactical miscalculation," Ace declared, undeterred. "I was assessing its nutritional needs."
Carl lost it again, laughing so hard he had to sit on the edge of the bed.
This—this was good. This was perfect. Normal, dumb, loud fun. A sanctuary built of glow-in-the-dark stars and shared failure.
Carl eventually caught his breath, wiping his eyes. "Bathroom," he gasped, still chuckling, and slipped out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
The moment it clicked shut, the atmosphere in the headset shifted. Cedric's playful tone vanished, replaced by something focused and grim.
"Alright. Cut the crap. What's going on with you and Zach Miller?"
Ace sighed, the easy smile fading from his lips. He leaned back in the chair, the game forgotten on the paused screen. "You saw the video too, huh?"
"Dude," Cedric said, his voice flat. "Everyone saw the video. My mom's hairdresser asked me about it. It's a whole thing."
"It's handled," Ace said, his tone dismissing it.
"Doesn't look 'handled' from over here," Cedric countered. "It looks like you kicked a hornet's nest while wearing short shorts."
"I'll deal with it."
Cedric was quiet for a beat. "You sure?"
Ace stared at his paused character on the monitor, a heroic figure frozen mid-leap. "Yeah."
Another pause, longer this time. Then Cedric spoke, his voice low and serious. "You know… this isn't nothing, Ace. This isn't a monster in the woods. This is a human problem with human consequences. In the open."
Ace leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the controller dangling from one hand. "I know."
"Zach's the type that escalates," Cedric continued, his hunter's mind analyzing the threat profile. "He doesn't back down from a public loss. He has to reclaim his status. And guys like him, they don't fight clean when they're cornered. They bring friends. They bring weapons."
Ace scoffed softly. "Yeah. I've met the type before. All bark, usually. Until they're not."
Cedric hummed in agreement. "Funny, isn't it? Everyone's always scared of the things that go bump in the night. The ghouls, the specters, the things with too many teeth. But most people… they get broken by other people first. Slowly. In pieces."
Ace's eyes darkened. He thought of Carl's slumped shoulders, the way he'd accepted the returned money without question.
"Humans can be monsters too," Ace said, the words tasting like ash. "Sometimes they're worse. At least the real monsters don't pretend they're something else."
"Exactly," Cedric's voice was a soft, agreeing rasp through the headset. "And what's happening to Carl? That's not just teasing. It's systematic. It's predatory. Taking his money, eroding his sense of safety, making him feel small in a place that's supposed to be safe… that's a hunt. A slow one."
Ace's grip on the controller tightened. "And I won't let him turn into prey. Not in his own life."
The silence that followed was heavy with shared understanding. This was their purpose, reframed. Not just protecting the world from the Hidden, but protecting people within it from the very human horrors that festered in the light.
Cedric finally broke it. "So. What's the plan, partner? We can't just wait for him to make a move."
Ace leaned back again, his gaze drifting to Carl's band posters—the screaming faces, the symbols of a private rebellion. "We don't go in swinging like idiots. That's what Zach expects. That's his arena. A messy brawl where he can bring numbers and claim victory."
"Then what's our arena?"
"We observe," Ace said, his voice dropping into a calm, strategic register. The hunter was fully present now. "We find leverage. Who does he answer to? His older brothers? Who's he trying to impress? What's he afraid of losing? Where's he weakest when he's not putting on a show? We don't fight the fist. We cut the nerve."
Cedric let out a low, appreciative chuckle. "You've already been planning, haven't you?"
Ace allowed a small, hard smirk. "Since I walked away from the park."
"Still," Cedric's tone turned cautionary again, "you're in civilian territory right now. No relics. No enchanted rounds. No Veil to hide behind. One wrong move, one public slip, and the consequences are… mundane. And permanent. Police. Juvie. Your mom."
"I know," Ace nodded, the weight of that reality settling on him. It was a different kind of risk assessment. "That's why we don't rush. We're precise."
A pause.
Then Ace added, his voice quiet but absolute, "But we do something. We end it."
Cedric's smile was audible. "Good. Because doing nothing is how monsters—of any kind—get to thrive."
Footsteps padded softly in the hallway, approaching the door.
Ace's posture changed in an instant, the strategic hunter receding, the slightly goofy cousin returning. He straightened up just as the door creaked open wider.
Carl stepped back in, a towel draped over his shoulder, his hair slightly damp from splashing his face. He looked between Ace and the paused screen. "Uh… did I interrupt something? You guys got quiet."
Ace shifted gears seamlessly, throwing his hands up in mock despair. "Nah, Cedric was just relentlessly bullying my lack of hand-eye coordination. It's a conspiracy."
Cedric jumped in, the levity back in his voice. "Truth isn't bullying, man. You died to a stationary crate. A crate."
"It was an aggressive crate!" Ace protested, earning a real laugh from Carl.
Carl moved closer, peering at the screen where Ace's avatar had met its ignoble end. A small, confident smile touched his lips. "You're holding the controller wrong. Here, let me show you a trick."
He gently took the controller from Ace's hands, his fingers moving with a practiced, sure grace as he reset the checkpoint. His voice, as he explained the combo and the timing, was clear. Patient. There was no stutter. No hesitation. This was his domain.
Cedric, listening through the headset, was silent for a long moment.
Then he said, softly, more to himself than to Ace, "Yeah. This is worth protecting."
Ace, watching Carl's focused profile illuminated by the screen's glow, caught his own faint reflection in the dark monitor. He saw the resolve there, beneath the easy-going mask.
Yeah, he thought, the certainty a solid core within him. It really was.