My name's Adam. I'm not special. That's not self-pity — just something I learned early and stopped arguing with. I'm five-ten, overweight, green eyes nobody remembers, black hair that always sticks up in the back. The kind of guy teachers forget to call on. The kind people talk over without realizing.
Greyhaven is full of people like me.
It doesn't look dangerous in the movies. Just tired. The buildings lean into each other like they're too exhausted to keep standing. Windows stay lit all night because nobody here sleeps right. Sirens pass so often they stop meaning anything. Heroes exist — sure — but they don't come down to street level unless something explodes. Most of the time, it's just people trying to keep their heads down.
We live above a laundromat that smells like hot metal and detergent that never quite worked. The elevator makes this god-awful wheeze when it climbs, like it's about to give up halfway. The walls are so thin I can tell when the neighbors microwave popcorn. No joke.
Mom works nights. Says she doesn't mind. I don't believe her, but I don't call her on it. She doesn't have the energy for arguments. My sister makes enough noise for all three of us. Talks too loud, leaves her stuff in the hall, laughs at dumb videos she knows I can hear. Drives me insane. But she checks my door every night. Pretends she's just walking past. I pretend not to notice. That's how we are.
School's the same every day. No swirlies, no fistfights, just quiet judgment — the kind people don't say out loud. Looks. Delayed laughs. People acting like it's easier when I'm not in the room. I used to try harder. I don't anymore.
At night, my brain finally slows down. Sort of. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting the sounds outside: traffic, yelling, sirens in the distance. Greyhaven doesn't sleep. Not really. Neither do I.
That afternoon I left school alone, like always. Backpack digging into my shoulder. Mom was working. My sister had soccer. I thought about instant noodles and maybe checking if we still had those freezer burritos. The hallway light buzzed when I walked out. I made a mental note to tell the landlord. Forgot it five seconds later. Greyhaven smelled like exhaust and wet concrete. I didn't know anything was wrong yet.
The walk home was fifteen minutes. I didn't take the bus — not worth the hassle. I cut through the side streets past the same boarded-up shops, the same mural flaking off a concrete wall, and that one broken payphone that smells like piss no matter the weather. My backpack felt heavy. Not from books. Just… junk I never cleaned out. Papers. Pens that didn't work. A sandwich bag from Monday. Maybe Tuesday. I told myself I'd deal with it when I got home.
Footsteps started behind me around the halfway point. I didn't turn around. Just kept walking. That's the rule — don't give them anything. Don't react. If you don't react, sometimes they move on.
"Hey." I kept walking. "You deaf?"
Another voice. This one with a laugh in it. I hated that laugh. Knew what it meant. I turned. Slowly.
Two of them. Teenagers like me, maybe a little older. Hooded jackets, wet and cheap. Bored expressions. Not angry — just expecting me to fold. One held out his hand. "Wallet."
I gave it to them. No drama. That's the move. If they want money, you give it. You live. He opened it. Thumbed through.
"…You kidding me?"
There was a five in there. Some change. A faded school ID. That was it.
"Dude's broke," the second one muttered.
The first guy looked annoyed. Like I'd wasted his time. Like I owed him more. He hit me.
No threat, no warning. Just fist — face — pavement. Pain bloomed fast. My cheek hit the sidewalk. Rain soaked into my hoodie. I tasted iron. My stomach twisted but didn't let go of anything.
A second kick caught my ribs. I curled. The world blurred in streaks. My backpack straps creaked with every hit.
The third kick landed, and something shifted in me. Not a bone. Something else. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think straight. My ears were ringing — high and sharp, like pressure building behind my eyes.
Then came the… shapes.
Not words. Gun. Teeth. Make him bleed. He won't fight back. He never does.
The thoughts weren't mine. But they were in my head anyway. Sliding in sideways, like I'd left the door unlocked.
Two of those thoughts crashed together. I didn't pick them. They just — fused.
Gun. Teeth.
Then my hand clenched.
I was holding something. Didn't know how. Didn't see it appear. It was just there, heavy and wrong.
It wasn't a real gun. The metal was warped, bent inward like something had chewed through it. Teeth lined the front — real ones, I think. Wet heat pulsed in my grip. The wires running down its sides looked like veins.
They kicked me again.
My finger twitched.
The thing fired.
Not a bang. Not even close. It was a crack. Like the world split along a seam.
The taller guy didn't fall. He exploded. His chest peeled open. Ribs tore out sideways. Blood hit the wall behind him like wet rope snapping. He dropped in pieces.
The other one screamed. Loud, broken, terrified. He turned to run.
The weapon fired again.
Something tore open. I didn't look long enough to see where. He dropped too — no movement. Just steam rising from what was left.
The alley went quiet. Except for the rain. It smelled like copper, shit, and something raw.
I dropped the weapon. Or it dropped itself. I didn't look.
I ran. Limped. My leg wasn't working right — I don't know which one. My hands shook like they weren't part of me. I nearly slipped on the sidewalk twice.
Somehow I made it home. Buzzing hallway light. Fingers numb. Keys not working right. Took me three tries to get in.
My room. Dark.
I collapsed face-first on the bed, still soaked, still wearing everything.
I didn't cry. Didn't move.
What did I just do?
Everything went black.