“John, only two months left until the SATs.”

  From behind the podium, Ms. Wilson’s gaze cut through the classroom’s hush, locking onto the boy slouched by the back window. She set down her red pen, her fingertips tapping lightly against the mountain of test papers, her tone laced with unmasked concern. “I need you to buckle down—focus every ounce of your energy on studying. Get into a good college, and you’ll have all the time in the world to make money later.”

  Silence hung between them.

  John stared at his scuffed sneakers, his fingers brushing the cool bronze pendant tucked inside his uniform pocket. Sunlight spilled through the window, gilding the tips of his messy brown hair, yet it did nothing to chase away the exhaustion etched into his sharp features. He didn’t speak—he looked like he was listening, but his mind was miles away.

  “I know you’ve been selling trinkets on the downtown overpass after school,” Ms. Wilson’s voice softened. She knew the boy’s story all too well: parents killed in a drunk-driving crash, his only guardian living abroad in London, forcing him to scrape together tuition and rent by hawking his wares. “I understand how hard things are for you, but this is crunch time. If you flunk this exam because of those side hustles, if you don’t get into the state university—you’ll be throwing away your only shot at a better life.”

  John finally lifted his head, his dark eyes holding a gravity far beyond his seventeen years. He hesitated for a beat, choosing his words carefully. “I get it, Ms. Wilson. Sell out my stock tonight, and I’m done. No more overpass. Just studying.”

  Ms. Wilson sighed, rubbing her throbbing temples. The kid was brilliant—top of their class in physics, for God’s sake—but he talked like a seasoned street vendor, all gruff pragmatism and zero teenage awkwardness. Still, she knew John never broke a promise. She let the phrasing slide, pressing for a guarantee. “Give me your word. No more selling after tonight. Not a single charm.”

  “Tonight, I sell every last one,” John said, his voice unshakable.

  Ms. Wilson studied his resolute expression, then nodded. “Alright. I trust you.”

  John nodded back, turning to slump into his seat. Truth was, he’d already planned to quit the overpass gig. Getting into State U wasn’t just a goal—it was his ticket out of Blackwater Estates, the run-down housing project where he’d been fending for himself since last summer. The trinkets were just a stopgap.

  He’d barely sat down when his desk mate, Will, leaned over, his voice a frantic whisper. “What’d she want? Ranting about the overpass again?”

  “Told me to focus on the SATs,” John mumbled, flipping open his math textbook.

  “Figured as much.” Will nodded, then groaned, dropping his head onto his notebook. “Dude, I’m so stressed I can’t sleep. Every night, it’s the same thing—I’m gonna lose my mind.”

  “Pull it together,” John said, clapping him on the shoulder. His tone sharpened, a hint of something unspoken beneath the words. “We can’t afford to hold back anymore. Not now.”

  “I’m already going all in!” Will whined, his voice cracking. “You don’t get it—I had that dream again last night. The black coffin. Same exact spot, same empty feeling. Woke up screaming at two a.m.”

  John’s pen froze mid-equation. Will had been having the same nightmare for a week straight. That wasn’t just stress. That was something else.

  “Hey, uh—” Will tugged at his sleeve, his blue eyes wide with desperation. “When you’re at the overpass tonight… can you ask Old Luke about it? He’s into that dream stuff, right? See if he knows what it means.”

  “Sure,” John said, without hesitation.

  The day slipped away in a blur of scratchy pen tips and droning lectures. When the final bell rang, no one moved—for seniors, it was just a signal to switch from classroom work to self-study. But John was a day student, no evening classes required. He slung his backpack over one shoulder and headed for the door, not pausing for a second.

  Outside, he cut through the alley behind the school and unlocked a rusted storage unit, hauling out a heavy cardboard box crammed with his last batch of hand-carved protection charms. Normally, he’d wheel them over on his beat-up tricycle, but today he walked—jogged, actually. Part of him was sure he’d sell out before midnight, no need for the hassle. The other part? He wanted to test just how much his body had changed lately.

  Ten minutes later, he reached the downtown overpass. He skidded to a stop, breathing hard—but only barely. A thin sheen of sweat dotted his forehead, but his lungs didn’t burn. A month ago, this sprint would’ve left him gasping for air. Now? It felt like a warm-up.

  “Those vials actually work…” John muttered, his expression unreadable. A few weeks back, he’d found a crumpled leather satchel in his late grandfather’s attic—inside, six glass vials filled with glowing amber liquid, and a tattered journal written in a language he didn’t recognize. On a whim, he’d taken one. Since then, his stamina had skyrocketed, his reflexes sharper than a blade. It was the only reason he’d dared to quit the overpass gig—he could pick up more hours at the library, study longer, and still have energy left over. It was also the reason he knew something was very wrong with the world lately.

  He set the box down, about to unfurl his plastic tarp, when a familiar voice drifted over from the next stall.

  “Mister, I don’t know what else to do.” A man in a rumpled suit sat hunched over Old Luke’s folding table, his face gaunt, his tie hanging loose. He buried his face in his hands, his voice thick with despair. “My coworker—he’s out to get me. Sabotages my reports, badmouths me to the boss. Everyone says I should just ‘be nicer,’ ‘compromise.’ But I can’t. I lie awake every night, replaying every argument, every mistake. I’m losing my mind.”

  Old Luke was the overpass’s resident “wise man”—a grizzled old guy with a white goatee and a threadbare wool coat, who made a living reading palms and interpreting dreams. To most people, he was a fraud. To John? He was the only one who’d never called his charms a scam. Right now, he had his eyes closed, his gnarled fingers moving in quick, precise gestures—like he was counting something invisible. After a minute, he opened them, his voice low and gravelly.

  “You don’t owe him a damn thing, son. The problem isn’t you. It’s him.”

  The man’s head shot up, his eyes wide with hope. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a walking jinx,” Old Luke said, flat-out. “Your auras clash—like oil and water. Changing yourself won’t fix it. Either transfer to a new department, or cut him out completely. That’s the only way to stop the rot.”

  It was like a weight lifted off the man’s shoulders. His face lit up, the exhaustion vanishing as if it had never been there. He slammed his fist against the table, grinning. “I knew it wasn’t my fault! Thank you—you’re a lifesaver, man!”

  He pulled a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it over, then turned—and froze, his gaze locking onto John’s box of charms. His eyes lit up again. “Hey, kid—how much for those protection things?”

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  “Ten bucks each,” John said, raising an eyebrow. Business this good this early? He’d take it. “Last batch I’ve got, too.”

  “Give me ten!” the man said, without hesitation. His voice was almost manic. “If that guy’s a jinx, I need all the help I can get. Gonna stick these everywhere—my desk, my car, my fridge. Teach him to mess with me.”

  John blinked. He’d never had someone buy ten charms at once. But he wasn’t about to argue. He grabbed a stack of the wooden talismans—each carved with the same swirling symbols from his grandfather’s journal—and stuffed them into a plastic bag.

  “Free advice,” John said, handing it over. He leaned in, his voice low. “Quit trying to please everyone. Reject the mental gymnastics. If he messes with you again? Punch him in the face. Don’t let anyone make you feel like garbage.”

  The man stared at him for a second, then nodded slowly, like he was finally hearing the truth. “You know what? You’re right. Thanks, kid.”

  He waved and walked away, the bag of charms swinging from his hand, whistling a off-key tune.

  “Looks like you’ll sell out before sunset,” Old Luke said, sauntering over. He wore a smug grin, like he’d had a hand in the sale. “You owe me, y’know. If I hadn’t fixed his head, he wouldn’t have bought a single charm.”

  “Funny,” John said, smirking. “Last month you called me a con artist. Now you’re taking credit for my sales?”

  Old Luke waved a dismissive hand. “Water under the bridge. Tell me something—are those charms actually real? That guy looked like a new man after buying ’em.”

  John just smiled, not answering. The symbols weren’t just random scratches. His grandfather’s journal had said they were “warding sigils”—protection against “the unseen.” He’d never believed it… until a few weeks ago, when a woman bought a charm and came back the next day, crying, saying her apartment’s “creaking noises” had stopped.

  “Hey, Luke—got a question for you,” John said, switching gears. He nodded toward Will’s direction, though the other boy was long gone. “It’s about a friend. He’s been having nightmares.”

  “Oh? The great John, believer in dreams?” Old Luke raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. In his book, John was the king of “stick to the facts.”

  “Not me. Him,” John clarified. “Same dream every night for a week. A black coffin, right in the middle of his living room. It’s empty… but he says he can feel something watching him from inside it. Wakes up sweating every time.”

  Old Luke’s grin vanished. His face went pale, his goatee twitching as his fingers started tapping again—faster this time, urgent. “Black coffin… same dream, seven nights straight…” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “Normally, a coffin dream’s not all bad—means a fresh start, leaving the past behind. But seven times? That’s not a sign. That’s a warning.”

  He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes darting around like he was afraid someone was listening. “Something’s latched onto him, kid. Something that doesn’t belong in the daylight.”

  John’s jaw tightened. He’d suspected as much, but hearing Old Luke say it out loud made it real. “Is there anything he can do? To get rid of it?”

  “Can’t say for sure without seeing him,” Old Luke said, shaking his head. He scratched his chin, his expression grim. “Tell him to stay calm—no panicking, no letting the fear get to him. Warm milk before bed, maybe some melatonin. Keep the lights on at night. The more he’s scared, the stronger it gets. Those things feed on fear, y’know.”

  “I’ll pass it along,” John said, nodding. He tucked the advice away, already planning to text Will the second he got home.

  Night fell fast, painting the sky in deep indigo. The overpass buzzed with activity—commuters heading home, tourists snapping photos, street performers strumming guitars. John’s charm sales were through the roof. By eight o’clock, the box was half-empty. By ten, only a handful were left. He smiled, counting the crumpled bills in his pocket—enough to cover next month’s rent, with a little left over for textbooks.

  One by one, the other vendors packed up their stalls. Old Luke folded his table and slung his bag over his shoulder, pausing to clap John on the back. “Sold out yet, kid? Head home before the streets get ugly. This city’s not safe after dark—not anymore.”

  “Almost done,” John said. He held up the last charm, carved with the same swirling sigil as the rest. “Just this one left.”

  “Keep it,” Old Luke said, winking. “Might need it more than you think.” He turned and walked away, his boots clicking against the concrete, disappearing into the shadows.

  By eleven, the overpass was deserted. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. John packed up his tarp and tossed the empty box into the dumpster, then pulled out his phone to hail a cab. Normally, he’d walk home—it was only thirty minutes—but he wanted to study for an extra hour tonight. Besides, his legs felt weirdly heavy, like they were made of lead.

  A yellow taxi pulled up, its tires screeching against the curb. John slid into the backseat, slamming the door shut. “Blackwater Estates, please.”

  “You got it, buddy,” the driver said, his voice crackling through the intercom. He shifted into gear, and the car pulled away from the curb.

  John leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. His mind raced, sorting through the day’s events: charms sold out, SAT prep starting tomorrow, Will’s nightmare, Old Luke’s warning… and those vials. The journal had said the liquid was “a gift from the old ones”—a boost to the body, but with a catch. A catch he still hadn’t figured out.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with the world. Not just the usual wrong—potholes and high rent and annoying coworkers—but something bigger. Something ancient. Lately, he’d heard the rumors: a woman in the park claiming she’d seen a man with no eyes, a family saying their silverware moved on its own, a kid talking about a “shadow man” who watched him sleep. Add in Will’s dream, the vials, and his own enhanced strength… it all pointed to one thing.

  The world was changing. And not for the better.

  He was so lost in thought that he almost didn’t hear the driver speak. “Hey, uh—you mind if I pick up another fare? There’s a girl by the bus stop, waving me down. Late night, alone… feels wrong to leave her out here.”

  John’s eyes flew open.

  He followed the driver’s gaze to the sidewalk ahead. Under a flickering streetlight, a girl stood waiting. She wore a blood-red dress that clung to her thin frame, her long black hair cascading down her back like a curtain. One pale hand was raised, waving slowly—too slowly—at the taxi.

  “No,” John said, his voice sharp, unyielding. The word burst out of him before he even knew why. Something about her felt off. Wrong. Dangerous.

  The driver blinked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “Huh? Why not? It’s just a girl—”

  “I have schizophrenia,” John said, cutting him off. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, shoving it through the gap between the seats. It was a fake diagnosis he’d printed off the internet last month, just in case he ever needed an excuse to get out of something. “Paranoid type. Hallucinations, delusions, the whole nine yards. If you let her in this car… I can’t promise I won’t snap. Might hurt her. Might hurt you.”

  The driver stared at the paper, then back at John. His face went white as a sheet. He’d been driving this route for twenty years—he’d picked up drunks, drug dealers, even a guy once who’d tried to rob him at knifepoint. But this? A kid who openly admitted he might hurt someone? That was a line he wasn’t willing to cross.

  “Right,” the driver said, his voice trembling. He hit the gas, hard. “No problem. We’ll skip her. Totally fine.”

  The taxi lurched forward, speeding past the bus stop. John didn’t look away. He kept his eyes glued to the girl in the red dress, his heart hammering against his ribs. Her hand was still raised, waving. Her head was turned toward the car—he could see the back of her hair, the curve of her neck, the pale skin of her face.

  But he couldn’t see her features. It was like a fog was swirling around her head, blurring her face into nothingness.

  Then, as the taxi zoomed past, a gust of wind blew off the river, whipping her hair to the side.

  For a split second, the streetlight caught her face.

  No eyes. No nose. No mouth.

  Just smooth, blank skin. A perfect, featureless canvas.

  A cold wave of terror crashed over John, so intense he thought he might throw up. His blood turned to ice, his fingers curling into fists so tight his nails dug into his palms. He finally understood the feeling that had clawed at his chest the second he saw her.

  She wasn’t human.

  The taxi raced away, leaving the girl in the red dress far behind. The driver kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes wide with fear, not saying a word. John leaned back against the seat, his breathing ragged, his hand fumbling in his pocket until his fingers closed around the last wooden charm. It was warm to the touch, the sigil pressing into his palm like a promise.

  He stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past. The journal had warned about “the faceless ones”—creatures from the void, drawn to fear, to pain, to the cracks between the worlds. He’d thought it was just old nonsense. Grandfather’s ramblings.

  Now he knew the truth.

  The world wasn’t just changing. It was waking up.

  And the things that were waking up with it? They were hungry.

  John squeezed the charm tighter, his gaze hardening. He’d spent his whole life fighting—for money, for survival, for a chance at a better future. This was just another fight. Another challenge.

  And he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  Not tonight.

  Not ever.