Mike's alarm buzzed like a mosquito with a vendetta. He slapped it blind and rolled over, groaning into the warmth of his pillow. For a second, he let himself forget—the bandages, the scars, the way the air felt heavier in the house since that night.

  Then the pain flared. Right leg, lower back—skin that didn't quite feel like his anymore. Right. I'm still here.

  He sat up slowly, blanket dragging across skin grafts with a whisper like sandpaper. His body had healed just enough to move without screaming, but every step still came with a wince. The doctors said it was a miracle he’d survived.

  They didn’t call it what it really was—Fate. Richard Xander.

  Mike's eyes flicked to his desk. The gauntlets sat there—untouched, unreadable. Ornate things, old and beautiful in a way that felt wrong in a teenager's room. He hadn't dared put them on. Not yet. Not even after all this time.

  But they watched him. Every morning. Like they were waiting.

  Downstairs, the smell of burnt toast drifted up the hallway. His sister was trying to make breakfast again. He pushed himself off the bed, body aching in the usual places, and hissed through his teeth. Just another day. Pretend it's normal. Pretend I'm normal.

  He didn’t see the way the air shimmered for a split second behind him—the faint ripple of power, like the world holding its breath.

  He made it down the stairs one slow step at a time, hand grazing the rail. The sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen reminded him of all the things that used to be normal.

  His sister, Kayla, was standing on a chair in front of the toaster, poking at a slice of bread with a butter knife and a fierce scowl.

  "You're gonna electrocute yourself," Mike muttered.

  Kayla turned her head just enough to give him the look. "You said you liked it crispy."

  "Not vaporized." He managed a small smirk, and her scowl softened.

  There was a beat of quiet as she climbed down and grabbed two plates. Mike leaned on the counter, muscles twitching beneath healing skin. It wasn’t the pain that got to him. It was the feeling—like something inside him was itching, just under the surface. A pressure building. Climbing. Scratching.

  Kayla slid a plate toward him. "You okay?"

  He hesitated. "Just tired."

  It was a lie. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Ever since Richard Xander—ever since that man gave him the gauntlets with eyes that knew things he didn’t say.

  Mike glanced at the clock. Twenty-three days since he gave them to me. And every single one of them had felt like the world was standing still, waiting.

  The building looked the same. The stares didn’t.

  He made it halfway down the hallway before he heard the whisper.

  "Isn't that the kid from the fire?"

  They always tried to whisper. Like he couldn't hear them. Mike kept walking, one foot in front of the other, every step a reminder that he was still here. That he shouldn't be. Locker. Math. Notes. Breathe. Pretend.

  And then he saw her.

  Lin.

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  Leaning against the lockers like she owned the hallway. Black hair in waves that framed her pale face, eyes like storm clouds—and always, always locked on him.

  "You're late," she said, brushing a hand through her hair like she hadn't been standing there all morning waiting.

  "Woke up crispy," Mike muttered. "Needed a little extra defrost time."

  She smiled—small, sharp, secretive.

  "I had a dream," she said, stepping closer. "You were in it. You were on fire."

  Mike paused. "Sounds more like a nightmare."

  Lin's smile didn't falter. "Not for me."

  The bell rang, sharp and sudden. Mike flinched harder than he meant to. Lin noticed. Of course she did.

  "You okay?" she asked, voice softer now, like it was just for him.

  He didn’t answer.

  Instead, he turned and started walking—toward class, toward normalcy, toward the thing he was pretending still existed.

  That's when the humming started.

  Not outside. Not in the halls. Inside him.

  It was like something under his skin had finally woken up and realized it was trapped. His hands started to tingle. The hairs on his arms stood up.

  "Mike?" Lin's voice followed behind him. "Mike, wait—"

  He stumbled into his classroom, trying to hold it together. People stared. The teacher raised an eyebrow. He muttered an apology, took his seat. The humming didn’t stop.

  It intensified.

  He looked down at his backpack—he hadn't brought the gauntlets. They were at home, tucked away like always. But he could feel them. Calling him. Begging.

  And then, out of nowhere—

  "Freak."

  The word came from behind him, sharp and stupid. A laugh followed.

  Mike didn’t even turn around. His vision blurred. His fingers glowed.

  Lin burst into the room.

  "Get out!" she shouted, but it was too late.

  Something inside Mike snapped.

  And then the world caught fire.

  The windows blew inward. Flames licked the walls. Desks flipped. The air warped around him like the sky was bleeding light.

  Students screamed. Alarms blared. Smoke swallowed the hallway.

  In the middle of it all, Mike stood up—no longer the boy who had tried to forget. Eyes glowing white-hot, skin flickering with lightning arcs, fire blooming at his feet.

  Lin reached him first. She didn’t flinch. She stepped through the flames like they belonged to her too.

  "Mike," she whispered, "you finally heard them, didn’t you?"

  He turned to her, voice low, distant, afraid. "They never stopped."

  Lin

  She crouched beside him.

  The fire had faded to embers now, flickering along the edges of broken desks and shattered windows. The room reeked of scorched plastic and fear. But none of it mattered.

  Mike was on his knees, gasping like someone had been holding his lungs shut.

  "Mike," she said again, softer this time, like his name alone could tether him to reality. To her.

  He looked up, eyes still glowing faintly, flickers of lightning fading in his irises like dying stars.

  "I didn't mean to," he whispered.

  "I know," she said, reaching out.

  Her fingers hovered just above his shoulder—afraid to touch him, afraid not to. The air between them was hot, not from the flames but from what he was now. What he had become.

  And what he’d always been, if you asked her.

  She remembered the fire—the first one. The one that took him from her. The one he walked into like a goddamn hero and burned alive just to save someone else.

  He’d died. She felt it when it happened. Something in her cracked open that day, and no one ever put it back right.

  And now? Now he was here. Alive. More than alive. Glowing with power that made her skin tingle and her heartbeat stutter.

  The boy who broke the rules of death just to save someone else.

  She stepped closer, a breath away. Her hand finally touched his.

  He looked at her, dazed. "I… I can't go back."

  "You won't have to."

  He swayed. His body shuddered once—then stilled.

  Eyes fluttered shut. "Mike?"

  No response. "Mike?!"

  Richard

  From a place that wasn't quite a room—too vast, too silent—Richard watched the moment with quiet satisfaction.

  He leaned back in a chair that didn't exist, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

  "Three down..." he whispered, voice like wind through a broken clock tower. "Time to stir the others."

  He looked out across a map no one else could see—threads glowing red, yellow, and blue, weaving together like veins under glass.

  Twelve names. Twelve lives. Twelve impossible survivors.

  The game had begun.

  ?? After Message

  If this chapter moved you, whispered to you, or left you with a spark in your chest… tell me.What line stuck with you?What part made you pause?

  And if you’re one of the Fatebound or Archivebreakers…Your name will soon live in this world as more than a reader.

  Chapter 2 will rise soon.

  Until then…Forge onward.

  — Azrael Drayven ??