Suburban America, Present Day
The sun did not watch over this land like a god; it glared like a harsh, interrogating fluorescent light. It baked the asphalt streets of the sprawling suburb, turning the air above the blacktop into shimmering waves of distortion. There was no smell of woodsmoke or wet earth here—only the suffocating scent of exhaust fumes, hot rubber, and the metallic tang of fear.
Jake was running.
He was seventeen, his skin pale and slick with sweat, his messy hair plastered to his forehead. His chest heaved, his ribs aching as if he had swallowed broken glass. He wasn't an athlete. He was the kid who sat in the back of the art room, the kid who tried to disappear. But today, he was running for his life.
Beside him ran Marcus.
Marcus was a different creature entirely. Tall, dark-skinned, and built with the coiled tension of a spring, he moved with a rhythm even in his panic. His hands were wrapped in white athletic tape, stark against his skin. He had come straight from the boxing gym when Jake's frantic, misspelled text had come through: HE FOUND THEM. HE HAS A GUN.
"Keep moving, Jake!" Marcus commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. He grabbed Jake's arm, his grip bruisingly tight, and yanked him around the corner of the dilapidated strip mall. "In here!"
They skidded into the alleyway behind the shops, kicking up clouds of grit and trash. It was a narrow service corridor, lined with overflowing dumpsters and smelling of rotting vegetables and stale beer.
Jake collapsed against the brick wall, sliding down until he hit the pavement. He gasped for air, tears cutting clean tracks through the dust on his face.
"Do you think... do you think he saw us?" Jake stammered, his voice cracking. He looked at Marcus with wide, terrified eyes. "Marcus, he wasn't just yelling. He was... quiet. That's when he's dangerous."
Marcus pressed his back against the wall, assuming a defensive stance instinctively. He peeked around the corner, his jaw set tight. "I don't see the truck yet. Breathe, Jake. We just need to cut through to the main road. There are people there. Witnesses."
"He doesn't care about witnesses," Jake sobbed, pulling his knees to his chest. "He found the letters, Marcus. The ones I hid under the mattress. He knows. He knows everything."
"Then we leave," Marcus said firmly. He looked down at his friend, his expression softening. "You stay at my place. My mom won't let him near you."
"Well, well, well."
The voice sliced through the humid afternoon air like a razor.
Jake froze. His stomach dropped into his shoes. It wasn't his father.
He looked toward the end of the alley—their only exit. Standing there, blocking the sunlight, was Chriss. Flanking him were his usual shadows, Mike and Tory. They were smiling, but it wasn't a friendly smile. It was the smile of predators who had found wounded prey.
"Look at this," Chriss sneered, stepping forward. He cracked his knuckles. "The fairy and his pet. Hiding behind the trash where you belong?"
Jake scrambled to his feet, wiping his eyes. "Please, Chriss. Not today. We just need to go."
"You don't go anywhere until we say so," Mike laughed, stepping forward. He was big, clumsy, and mean.
"Move, Chriss," Marcus warned. He stepped in front of Jake, his body shifting. He didn't puff out his chest like the bullies did. He tucked his chin. He raised his hands, the white tape glowing in the shadows. He didn't look like a high school student anymore; he looked like a middleweight contender.
"Or what?" Mike scoffed. "You gonna hit me, boy?"
Mike shoved Marcus. It was a sloppy, arrogant push.
It was the last mistake Mike made that afternoon.
Marcus didn't stumble. He rotated his hips, slipping the shove with the grace of water. In the same motion, he fired a left hook. It was short, sharp, and brutally precise. It connected with Mike's liver with a sickening thud.
Mike's eyes bulged. The air left his lungs in a wheeze. He folded in half, dropping to his knees, clutching his side, unable to breathe.
Chriss's smirk vanished. Panic flickered in his eyes. He raised his fists, trying to look tough, but Marcus was already there.
Pop-pop.
A stiff jab snapped Chriss's head back, bloodying his nose instantly. Before Chriss could recover, Marcus threw a straight right hand that stopped one inch from Chriss's jaw. The wind of the punch ruffled Chriss's hair.
"I said move," Marcus growled, his voice low and dangerous. "We aren't playing today."
Chriss stumbled back, holding his bleeding nose, terrified by the difference between a bully and a fighter.
For a second, Jake felt a surge of hope. Marcus was invincible. Marcus was his shield.
Then, the roar of an engine shattered the victory.
A rusted pickup truck screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley, blocking the light, trapping them in the shadows. The engine died, but the silence that followed was worse.
The driver's door flew open. Heavy boots hit the pavement.
Jake's father stepped out.
He was a massive man, a wall of muscle and rage fueled by years of bitterness. His face was purple, veins bulging in his neck. But it was his right hand that drew every eye in the alley.
A black pistol glinted in the sun.
Chriss and Tory scrambled backward, pressing themselves against the chain-link fence, realizing suddenly that this was no longer a schoolyard scrap. This was life and death.
Jake's father walked into the alley. He didn't look at the bullies. His eyes were locked on his son, and the boy standing in front of him.
"There you are," the father growled. His voice was a low rumble, shaking with a hatred so pure it felt hot. "I knew you'd run to him."
"Dad, please!" Jake screamed, stepping out from behind Marcus. "Put it down!"
"Shut up!" his father roared, raising the weapon. The barrel didn't waver. "I read those letters, Jake. Every sick, twisted word. I'd rather have a dead son than a... than what you are."
He shifted his aim. The gun pointed directly at Marcus's chest.
"And you," the father spat, his lip curling in disgust. "You think you can corrupt my boy? You think you can touch him?"
"I'm his friend," Marcus said. His voice was steady, but Jake could see the tremor in his taped hands. Marcus was brave, but he couldn't box a bullet. "Put the gun down, sir."
"Don't you speak to me," the father hissed. "Step away from him, Jake."
The command hung in the air.
"Come here, Jake," his father said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Come stand by me. Or I put a bullet in this animal right now."
Jake looked at the gun. The black hole of the barrel seemed to grow larger, swallowing the world. He looked at his father's murderous eyes, eyes that promised violence.
Then he looked at Marcus.
Marcus, who had walked him to class when he was scared. Marcus, who had just fought three guys to protect him. Marcus, who was standing still, waiting to die for him.
Fear, cold and overwhelming, broke Jake's mind. He was seventeen. He was a coward. And the terror of death erased his loyalty.
He didn't want to die. He wanted to be safe. He wanted his father to stop looking at him with that desire to kill.
Jake took a step away from Marcus.
"Jake?" Marcus whispered, glancing sideways, confusion clouding his eyes. "Stay behind me, man."
"I... I didn't want him here!" Jake shouted.
The words tore out of his throat, high and desperate. He looked at his father, pleading with his eyes. "Dad, I told him to leave me alone! He followed me!"
Marcus froze. He lowered his fists slowly, turning fully to look at his best friend. The betrayal hit him harder than any punch he had ever taken in the ring. "Jake... what are you doing?"
"Get away from me!" Jake screamed, shoving Marcus hard.
He needed to prove it. He needed to show his father he was on his side. He needed to use the language his father understood.
Jake pointed a shaking finger at Marcus, tears blinding him.
"I'm not with him!" Jake shrieked, his voice breaking. "I'm not with this... this [slur]!"
The word hung in the air.
It was heavier than the heat. It was sharper than the bullet. It was the word his father used at the dinner table. The word Jake had sworn, a thousand times in the dark, that he would never, ever let cross his lips.
And he had just used it to save his own skin.
Marcus flinched. His head snapped back as if he had been physically slapped. The light in his eyes—the fierce, protective loyalty—died instantly. It was replaced by a look of cold, hollow realization. He looked at Jake not as a friend, but as a stranger. As an enemy.
The father laughed. It was a triumphant, cruel sound. "See? That's my boy. Now get over here."
But the universe did not accept this.
The air in the alleyway suddenly dropped fifty degrees. The sound of the father's laughter was cut off as if a vacuum had sucked the sound away. The buzzing of the flies, the hum of the refrigerator units, the traffic—it all died.
The brick wall behind them—the dead end—dissolved.
In its place stood a rectangle of absolute darkness, seven feet tall. It cut through the reality of the alley like a surgical incision.
It was a Door.
The frame shimmered with a pulsing, violet light. The center was a swirling vortex of black, but deep within, stars spun in a bottomless void. It hummed with a violent, agitated energy, reacting to the raw emotion in the alley—the fear, the hate, and the crushing weight of the betrayal.
The father stumbled back, the gun shaking. "What... what the hell is that?"
Come, the silence roared. It wasn't a gentle invitation like it had been for Ressi. It was a demand.
Jake looked at the Door. He realized what he had just done. He had saved his body, but he had destroyed his soul. He looked at Marcus, desperate to take it back, but the damage was etched in stone.
"Marcus..." Jake whispered, reaching out a trembling hand.
Marcus looked at the hand. Then he looked at Jake's face.
"Don't touch me," Marcus said. His voice was dead. Cold as the void behind them.
"I'm killing it!" the father screamed, his mind snapping at the sight of the supernatural. He raised the gun, aiming not at the boys, but at the swirling purple eye of the Door.
BANG.
The gunshot shattered the spell. The bullet sparked against the brickwork inches from Marcus's head, sending red dust flying.
"Go!" Marcus yelled, instinct taking over.
He didn't grab Jake's hand. He didn't wait for him. He didn't look back.
Marcus turned and sprinted. He leaped into the violet vortex alone, diving into the unknown to escape the poisonous reality he was leaving behind. His body rippled like water and vanished.
"Marcus!" Jake screamed.
His father cocked the gun again, his eyes wild with fear and fury.
Jake looked at his dad—the monster he had tried to appease. Then he looked at the empty space where his friend had been. Panic and guilt clawed at his throat. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't look his father in the eye.
Jake turned and ran.
He threw himself into the darkness, chasing the friend he had just destroyed.
He hit the cold energy of the portal. The world twisted inside out.
One moment, the alley was filled with the smell of gunpowder and the sound of a father cursing his son. The next, the violet light flashed blindingly bright, searing the image of the alley into oblivion.
The Door collapsed in on itself with a thunderous clap that shook the ground.
The alley was empty.
The brick wall was solid again. The heat rushed back in.
Jake's father stood alone on the asphalt, the gun smoking in his hand, staring at the blank red bricks. Chriss and the bullies huddled in the corner, sobbing in terror.
The boys were gone. They were hurtling through the space between worlds, heading toward the same destination, but separated by a chasm of words that might never be bridged.