THE CHECKPOINT
Bobby jerked awake like someone had yanked him straight out of the ocean.
His lungs burned. His shirt clung to his body. The burgundy bedspread twisted around his legs, damp with sweat. From the next room, his roommate's snoring rattled through the wall—loud, uneven, alive. Too alive compared to the thing he had just seen in the dark.
"Fuck… not again," he muttered, pressing both palms into his eyes.
The dream clung to him like wet cloth.
Those eyes.
That woman.
Same stare. Same gravitational pull in his chest.
The same impossible overlap with the girl he'd seen earlier today, like the dream version was the original—and the real one was just the echo.
He grabbed the water bottle on his nightstand and chugged it in ragged gulps—
guop, guop, guop—
trying to drown the panic clawing at his ribs.
"Siri," he exhaled, voice hoarse, "what time is it now?"
SIRI chimed back in her calm, uncaring tone.
"It's 4 AM, twenty-eigh—"
"This gotta be a joke," he groaned. "Nah… nah."
His hand dragged across his mouth, collecting the leftover panic.
"Hey Siri, send a voice message to Enzo."
"You want to send the text to Enzo?"
Bobby lifted the phone close to his mouth, still breathing unevenly.
"Man— that antique alcohol shit you bought? Nah, fuck that. I haven't slept two hours total. I'm sweating like Usain at the Olympics. If I'm late for work, me and you got a problem."
He sniffed, exhausted.
"I called in sick yesterday for your party. So you better blow up my phone at six in case I don't wake up. I got work. Also— you still didn't send me your brother's friend's number. Dayana? Dante? I dunno. Oh yeah— the French one. Whatever. Send it."
He fell backward onto the bed and unlocked his phone again.
Screen light washed over his tired face.
Volume too loud.
Eyes half-closed.
Still scrolling. Muscle memory carrying him through the motion.
A notification flashed.
LIVE: KFOX INTERVIEW WITH STATE ENTITY LENZ —
3 YEARS TITLED, 2× NOBEL PHOTOGRAPHY WINNER
He tapped it.
Bright studio lights filled the screen. The journalist, dripping in oversized earrings and broadcaster confidence, smiled into the camera.
"Tell us, Lenz," she said smoothly, "you've held your place as a State Entity for three years now. And you won the Nobel Prize in Photography two years back-to-back—honestly, I didn't even know photography had a Nobel category until you made it a thing."
She laughed, then blinked.
"Sorry— I almost took your spotlight. Got lost in the moment. So, tell us—"
She paused.
"What was the question?"
The audience chuckled. Lenz adjusted in his seat—young, calm, unnervingly still. The kind of stillness that made you think his camera could flatten a city if he tilted it the wrong way.
More laughter.
Bobby's eyes drooped, but he fought to focus.
Sleep tugged harder.
The journalist cleared her throat.
"I'm going to quote you, Lenz. You once said:
'We all face the sky. Some see birds. Some see clouds. Some force themselves to see stars.
But I can see Jupiter in full—like I see the dust on your shoes.'"
She coughed, choked on her words, then inhaled sharply.
"So the question was: for someone who can't notice he has a coffee stain on his shoes right now… how do you claim to see details miles away if you can't even notice the moment? And—" she squinted—"is it true the rumors are real? That State Entities are drug results?"
The audience oohed.
Lenz blinked once.
Slow. Measured.
"Wow," he said. "That was definitely the original question."
More laughter rolled through the studio.
Bobby didn't hear the rest.
His head slid sideways onto the pillow.
The phone slipped onto his chest.
He was out cold—snoring softly—right as the interview shifted, right as Lenz's expression changed on-screen.
Right before the world Bobby thought he lived in started collapsing.
------------
The neon lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they, too, were sleep deprived.
"Total comes to eighty-four oh-nine," Bobby said, forcing a smile that felt alien on his exhausted face. He gestured to the card machine. "Machine's ready. Just insert your card."
The older man on the other side—Guillaume—patted his pockets, searching as if they were infinite layers of lost items. "Won't be long… just a sec. I'm going to transfer the funds first."
Bobby exhaled through his nose, struggling to keep his temper polite. "Sir, with all due respect—you could've done that ahead of time. Look at that queue—been on hold for ten minutes."
"Not my problem, young man," Guillaume said sharply, without looking up. He paused, then tilted his head, observing Bobby. "Then hire more cashiers. Less work for you. Probably less hours, too. Speaking of hours—how many did you sleep? You look exhausted."
Bobby cracked a humorless laugh, gesturing to his co-worker. "Very funny, Guillaume. Blair—look who woke up with good humor today."
Blair peeked from the next lane, eyebrow arched. "Surprising, honestly."
"I'd like some cashback," Guillaume announced. "Four pieces—"
"A dollar each," Bobby answered automatically, counting out the singles. He placed them on the counter. "Your gambling habits are predictable miles away. What could you possibly want with that money even if you won the lottery? You're retired. Lived a good life. Did you know the average lifespan is about eighty? You're past that. Odds already in your favor."
Guillaume accepted the money and smiled with a mix of pride and mischief. "I'm living a good life, indeed. What am I supposed to do, hmm?"
"You could—"
"Receipt's in the bag," Blair cut in smoothly. "Thank you for shopping at Benedict GoodFood."
Guillaume accepted the bag, but his eyes lingered on Bobby, the mischief fading into something heavier. "The answer you're looking for," he said quietly, leaning in, "is to dream new dreams."
Bobby stiffened, the casual annoyance draining away.
"Think about your first paycheck three years ago," Guillaume continued. "You were happy. Look at you now. Is this your finish line… or just a checkpoint?"
Bobby swallowed, rattled by the accuracy of the comment. "Okay, enough. Next, please."
Guillaume chuckled. "Shame your father's loyal to a lost legacy. We beat Memphis in four. Tell him I said hi." He winked.
Bobby motioned to Blair. "Handle the rest. I'm taking my break."
-----------
Cold air hit him as he stepped outside. Bobby lit a cigarette, letting the smoke steady the tremor in his nerves. His phone buzzed.
ENZO: Fuck that job, bro. They ain't worth the effort you put in.
"Yeah… fuck it. Guess who they gave the promotion to?" Bobby replied in a text.
ENZO: Blair? That bitch slow as a turtle?
"No—James."
ENZO: The new married guy?
"Yep. Man works like he's got five kids to feed. Was back at work the day after his wedding."
ENZO: And that's what you want? Bro—ten percent of the world has superpowers. We're lucky to be part of it. Why you killing yourself living normal?
"After college, I'll take the Test," Bobby texted back. "Make real money. Help the community—"
ENZO: You got declined by thirteen agencies.
"I wasn't rejected—they said I wasn't ready yet, there was still a fog I needed to clear in my mind."
ENZO: You're twenty, man. Maybe twenty-one. Soon your powers shut down if you don't keep them active.
"Easy for you to say. Your family's from the Adonai Cathedral."
ENZO: And still I live my own way. Besides—you liked that alcohol yesterday.
"About that—what was in it?"
ENZO: Laugh. Take a guess.
"Your ancestor's piss?"
ENZO: Close enough.
Enzo paused his reply. ENZO: Armani and that French girl you're obsessed with? They were on a mission in the Dark Continent.
Bobby rolled his eyes. "Of course they were."
ENZO: They met a girl from the Onyeka Tribe—potion makers. She gifted them something. A Calaestra medicine.
"That was milk?"
ENZO: Medicine for my zebra.
"You keep calling that six-foot tiger a zebra—"
ENZO: He doesn't like your dog phobia projections.
Bobby rubbed his forehead. "How did you know it wouldn't kill you?"
ENZO: A gift straight from the Dark continent? I wasn't letting it go unused.
"You're sick."
------------
Bobby was chewing gum to mask the cigarette odors as he headed back toward the store entrance.
Two masked men bolted past him, shoving him aside. A lotto ticket fluttered between their fingers.
"What the—"
He followed the direction they came from—and froze.
Guillaume lay on the tiles, his shopping bag tossed aside. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading slowly across the white floor.
"Guillaume?! Hey—HEY—stay with me!" Bobby dropped to his knees. "I'm calling emergency!"
Guillaume gave a small, pained laugh. "Stop it… boy…"
"Don't smile—fuck—don't smile, you're bleeding—HEY! Somebody call 911!"
"I'm on the line already!" a bystander yelled.
Guillaume's grip tightened on Bobby's sleeve, surprisingly strong. "Bobby… do you remember… when I first found out you worked here?"
"How could I remember that? That was three years—"
"You were stacking jeans… freshman… ambitious kid… reminded me of my friend Danny…"
Bobby stopped breathing. The noise of the mall around him faded into a dull roar.
Guillaume spoke slower now, his voice a ragged whisper. "Danny hanged himself… failed academically… I never understood why. He wanted a reason to keep going… he just had to look at me… but he didn't."
"That day I met you…" Guillaume whispered. "Do you remember what I bought?"
"Four monoxide hibachi," Bobby murmured, his voice catching. "I said someone was about to have a good night."
Guillaume's lips quivered in a smile.
"That day… I was going to commit suicide."
Bobby's heart plummeted. "But your joke… made me feel… I wasn't handicapped."
"Don't talk like that—ambulance is coming."
"These three years… were a bonus. A bonus you gave me."
His breathing weakened.
"What a wonderful way to die…" he whispered. "The day I hit the jackpot…"
His hand slipped from Bobby's grip, falling slack onto the tile. The world went silent.
Bobby's tears fell—thick, dark—staining Guillaume's face like drops of blood.
--------------
Something inside Bobby snapped.
He pressed his forehead to Guillaume's, rhythmically—a desperate heartbeat of denial.
WHY—TAH! WHY—TAH! YOU FINALLY WON—TAH! GODS ARE UNJUST—TAH!
A deeper sound answered him.
A monstrous heartbeat. A colossal presence.
A demon, rope around its neck, twelve feet tall, appeared out of nowhere. Bobby noticed it, but somehow, he wasn't fazed. His tears were blood and they were still falling.
Now the demon was running, and Bobby stayed on his knees in his agony.
The demon with the rope on its neck was running from corner to corner, following a smell. It left a lot of blood on its behind, like a tank with a hole, and suddenly the demon stopped because the smell stopped. The smell was coming from the fleeing thieves.
The thieves didn't stop because they noticed the demon; they noticed a light shining down, falling from the sky. While they were watching the light about to reach the ground, their heads were not inclined anymore to the sky. That's when they noticed the demon on standby and started panicking and ran again.
The falling light landed straight near Bobby with such a big amount of energy that it caused a wave of dust. Bobby, still crying blood tears, turned around and noticed two people in the shadow of the dust.
"Who …. Who are you?" Bobby mumbled, desperate to know if this was real and not just another dream.
They started walking, getting more visible and clear. A man with a sword, some white runes glowing on the blade. These are Malakhai runes, Bobby thought.
The dust was disappearing. It was a man and a woman. The woman caught Bobby's attention: her white shirt with a grey longneck, a gold crown with spikes, and her eyes were glowing back to normal—from neon green emerald to a dark cyan green.
That's when he realized: those two were Armani, Enzo's brother, and the lady from the party.