The city stretched toward the horizon, its streets lined with modern apartments, weathered office buildings, and patches of greenery swaying in the coastal breeze. The scent of salt hung in the air, carried from the distant ocean, but the streets below smelled only of blood, sweat, and panic.

  The rooftop they stood on wasn’t pristine. Cracks ran through the concrete like veins, and faded graffiti sprawled across the walls, some of it crude tags, others angry messages half-covered by layers of neglect. A few empty beer bottles lay discarded near the edge, kicked over long ago. A torn plastic bag fluttered weakly in the breeze before catching on the rusted railing. This wasn’t one of the city’s better suburbs. It wasn’t the worst either, but it had seen better days.

  Two figures watched the chaos below.

  One of them sat casually on a ventilation unit, a packet of chips crinkling softly in his hands as he absentmindedly popped another into his mouth. His caramel-toned skin glowed under the midday sun, slightly lighter than his companion’s, and his posture was effortlessly relaxed—like he had all the time in the world. A warm, easy going smile played on his lips, as if the carnage below was nothing more than an amusing street performance. But his eyes told a different story. Cold. Hollow. Detached. Like he was watching something he already knew the ending to.

  Beside him, the second figure stood near the ledge, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, the ember glowing faintly as he took a slow drag. His skin was darker, his face framed by scruffy stubble, and deep black circles sat under his eyes, the kind that came from years of sleepless nights. He exhaled smoke through his nose, watching the fight below with the same indifference someone might have for a slow-moving traffic jam. The Smiths were struggling. The infected were relentless. Civilians were dying. He let out a quiet breath, more bored than anything.

  Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. And yet, the rooftop felt heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath.

  They weren’t tense in the way people were before a fight. There was no fear, no posturing. Just two men who carried something terrible within them—something far worse than the chaos below.

  Then, finally, one of them spoke.

  “You failed.”

  The second figure exhaled a slow drag of smoke, his voice carrying a faint edge of boredom—though beneath it, there was the slightest hint of irritation. His tired eyes remained fixed on the chaos below, where a Smith in mid-transformation—half-man, half-beast—let out a feral roar, tearing one of the infected clean in half above his head. Blood sprayed across the pavement as the surrounding civilians screamed.

  “That’s quite the accusation,” the first figure replied, a smirk tugging at his lips as he popped another chip into his mouth. “Especially coming from someone who claims his infected are the peak of human evolution. And yet…” He gestured lazily to the scene below, his tone almost playful. “They’re being ripped apart by… filth.” He practically laughed on the last word, crunching loudly on another chip.

  The cigarette-smoking figure’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him subtly tensed. “Correction,” he said, voice still carrying that same bored detachment. “My infected become the peak of human evolution. My virus just needs time to make the necessary adjustments to their bodies.” He took another slow drag, exhaling through his nose as if explaining something obvious to a particularly slow student. “The ones down there? They’re newborn antelope—fast, sharp senses, can fend for themselves straight out the womb. But still undeveloped. The parents, though… they can do all that, tenfold.”

  Despite his measured words, something simmered beneath his tone. Annoyance. Anger. He had no intention of showing it, but the longer he stood next to the other figure, the more difficult that became.

  The first figure licked the salt off his fingers and simply grinned in response. grinned. As the cigarette smoker continued on speaking. “Also, the three Smiths below aren’t exactly filth, as you claim.” He leaned against the railing, watching as the battle raged on. “There’s a teleporter, a headless man who can make his body intangible at will, and then, of course, Sweet Cheeks.”

  The chip eater exhaled, licking the salt and spice off of his fingers. “Yeah… Sweet Cheeks.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment. “It’s a shame, really.”

  Without another word, the cigarette smoking figure steps away from the ledge, moving to the centre of the rooftop. Slowly, he sat down, cross-legged, placing his hands on his knees and closing his eyes.

  The first figure barely paid him any mind at first, too focused on the last few crumbs in his chip bag. But when he finally looked up, he let out a small, exasperated sigh. “Oh, shit. Wait—before you do that, what should I do with your bo—” He stopped himself with another deep sigh, realization dawning. “Ah. Too late.”

  His companion’s face scrunched up in concentration, black veins crawling across his visible skin as his complexion turned an unnatural, ashen gray. His breathing slowed. The atmosphere shifted.

  The first figure inched closer, hesitating before reaching out. He almost jolted the other awake—but he stopped himself at the last second, fingers twitching as he recalled what happened last time he got too close.

  “Ah, great,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. His annoyance quickly gave way to boredom as he lazily scanned the rooftop, eyes landing on a pile of broken bricks. Picking up a few pieces, he turned them over in his hands, staring at them as if they held the secrets of the universe.

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  Then, his eyes changed.

  A deep, glowing purple bled into his irises, brightening until the very air around him seemed to shift. The rooftop felt heavier. Thicker. Fear itself became tangible. Birds scattered from their perches. Cockroaches scurried into cracks. Rats abandoned their hiding places. Every small creature within range—seen or unseen—fled.

  Unbothered, he crouched down and carefully arranged a few of the bricks around his meditating companion before standing back up.

  With one last glance at the fight below, his smirk faded. His usual nonchalance disappeared. A shadow crossed his expression as he leaned against the ledge, watching with an almost solemn focus.

  The screams of civilians. The growls of the infected. The clash of Smiths fighting for survival.

  None of it unsettled him.

  And yet…

  “Oh, Sweet Cheeks,” he murmured, voice unusually soft. “If only it didn’t have to end this way.”

  Then, as if flipping a switch, his grin returned. He clapped his hands together. “Anyway! I’ve got somewhere to be in twenty minutes, and I hate being late.”

  Crumpling the empty chip bag in his hand, he aimed for his meditating companion’s face and tossed it like a basketball. Loudly exclaiming “Kobe!” as he throws the packet.

  The reaction was instant. Too instant.

  Before the bag could make contact, a hand lashed out, swatting it away with inhuman, lightning-fast reflexes.

  The first figure flinched back slightly, shuddering in an overly dramatic manner. “Still creepy as fuck.”

  Without another word, he stretched, rolling his shoulders, and strolled toward the rooftop door. As he reached it, he placed the final broken brick near the entrance, casually shutting the door behind him.

  Then, just like that, he was gone.

  Wherever he was going, it was apparently way more important than guarding his companion’s body.

  the rooftop completely exposed. His eyes start to slowly turn back to their usual shade of dark brown. And he walks away, shutting the door on his way.

  ****

  The fluorescent lights in the waiting room buzzed like they were barely holding on, flickering every now and then like they might give up entirely. I rubbed my arms, still feeling the cold, clinical touch of a hundred different instruments that had poked, prodded, and scanned every inch of me for the past several hours. The worst was the machine—some MRI-like monstrosity that I had to lie inside while it mapped my entire body, down to the last molecule. I swear I could still hear its deep hum vibrating in my skull.

  “You’re a bit tense,” the testing woman, Dr. Moreng, had noted dryly as she watched my vitals on her tablet.

  “Maybe because I’ve been lying in this tin can for half an hour while it invades my soul,” I muttered.

  Dr. Moreng barely reacted. She was one of those government types—cold, efficient, and completely unimpressed by everything. She tapped a few times on her screen before speaking again. “You’re not dying. Yet.”

  “Wow. Comforting.”

  “Your body structure is different from an average human’s. Subtly, but it’s there.”

  That caught my attention. I turned my head as much as I could inside the machine. “Different how?”

  She hesitated. Just for a second. Then she shook her head. “Not my department.”

  I frowned. “Not your department? You’re literally running the tests.”

  “Yes.”

  The machine clicked off with a mechanical whir, and I was finally allowed to sit up. My muscles ached, stiff from lying still for so long, but Dr. Moeng wasn’t done with me. Not even close.

  She led me to another room—colder, smaller, and filled with steel trays carrying syringes, vials, and medical tools that looked like they belonged in a horror movie.

  “Blood samples,” she said, already pulling on gloves.

  “Fantastic,” I muttered.

  I sat down as she tightened a rubber band around my arm. The needle slid in smoothly—too smoothly. She’d done this a million times before.

  “You don’t have a fear of needles, do you?” she asked, eyes flicking up to mine.

  “Of course I do.”

  No reaction. Just another glance at her tablet. “Your ability. You said you can move metal?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Small stuff. Keys, spoons, coins. Nothing impressive.”

  She hummed. “How far?”

  I hesitated. “Couple of meters. Maybe three if I concentrate.”

  She nodded, making a note. “And how does it work?”

  I exhaled, already exhausted by the questions. “I just... feel it. Like an awareness. I can tell when metal is near me, and if I focus, I can push or pull it. That’s it. No lightning bolts, no flying, no turning into a walking magnet.”

  Dr. Moeng didn’t respond right away. She finished with the blood samples, then plucked a spoon from one of the trays and placed it on the desk between us.

  “Show me.”

  I sighed, rubbing my temple. I was too tired for this, but I had no choice.

  I reached out with my mind, focusing on that strange pull inside me, the one I had felt ever since the incident with my keys. The spoon twitched. I narrowed my focus, trying to reverse the sensation. Slowly, it scraped across the surface toward me.

  Dr. Moreng tilted her head. “Again.”

  I did it. This time, pushing it away instead of pulling.

  She made another note. “Your control is decent. Basic, but stable. No outbursts, no wild fluctuations.”

  “Thanks, I guess?”

  “It’s why we’re letting you go home,” she said. “Most new Smiths stay here until their results come out. Too dangerous otherwise.”

  I blinked. “You think I’m not dangerous?”

  She gave me a look, the first hint of amusement in her otherwise emotionless face. “You moved a spoon, Tshepo. I think the city will survive.”

  Now, hours later, I was finally out.

  The night air felt too sharp against my skin after being cooped up in that facility all day. I pulled my hoodie up, letting out a slow breath as I walked down the quiet street. The city had settled into its usual late-evening rhythm—cars humming in the distance, street vendors packing up, neon signs flickering above corner stores.

  My stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten all day. Nando’s was just a few streets away.

  That’s when I felt it.

  A shift in the air. An itch at the back of my mind.

  I ignored it at first, chalking it up to exhaustion. But as I kept walking, the feeling stuck, clinging to me like an uncomfortable shirt.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  A guy. A block behind me. Hoodie up, hands stuffed into his pockets. Moving slow. Could’ve been nothing. Just someone heading home after a long day. But then I turned a corner, waited a few seconds, and peeked back. There he was. Same pace. Same distance. My fingers brushed against the coins in my pocket. Small, metallic objects. I could move them. Not well. Not fast. But maybe just enough. The warm glow of Nando’s was up ahead, and I quickened my pace, pretending like I hadn’t noticed anything. But I had noticed. And now I had a choice. Keep walking. Or figure out what the hell this guy wanted.