The morning didn't just arrive; it intruded.
The light was a physical weight against my eyes, aggressive and far too white. Even after I'd stepped out into the humid air, the ghost of last night's flash remained burned into the back of my retinas—a jagged, pale scar that refused to fade.
Every step felt like a negotiation with gravity. My shoes hit the pavement with a dull, distant thud, as if I were walking on a layer of thick foam. The world was wrapped in cotton; the birds, the distant hum of traffic, the rustle of leaves—it all felt filtered, processed, and slightly out of sync.
Breathe in. Step. Breathe out. Step.
I tried to force my body into a rhythm it didn't want. I tried to bully my lungs into a steady pace. But deep behind my ribs, there was a pulse that didn't belong to my heart. It was a rhythmic, buzzing heat, steady and alien, as if something were pressing against the inner walls of my bones, testing the limits of its cage.
By the time I reached the school gates, the world had already begun to tilt.
The hallway lights didn't just buzz; they screamed in a frequency I could feel in my teeth. My vision began to fray at the edges, white fog creeping in from the periphery until the lockers looked like they were floating in a void. When people spoke, their words didn't reach me as language. They were just sounds—wet, heavy echoes that sounded like they were traveling through miles of water.
Panic, cold and jagged, clawed at my throat. I tried to swallow, but my muscles had turned to stone. I tried to gasp, but the air felt too thin to catch.
My knees gave a warning tremor—a sudden, sickening drop in pressure. I was a house of cards, and the wind was picking up.
"Hashy?"
The name hit me like a splash of ice water. It was sharp enough to anchor me, if only for a heartbeat.
A hand clamped onto my shoulder, solid and warm. Yinoh. I could see the blur of his face, the sudden shift from a casual greeting to sharp, focused alarm. "Hey—Hash. Talk to me. What's happening?"
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My tongue felt like a foreign object. Instead of words, a surge of heat erupted from my chest—a searing, digital static that traveled through my veins.
The hallway didn't just ripple; it broke.
The floor tiles slid beneath my feet like liquid. The lockers stretched toward the ceiling, tall and thin, pulled by invisible hands. The lights didn't flicker—they tore, leaving long, vertical streaks of white across my vision.
And then, right in the center of the distortion, I saw it.
A silhouette. It stood within the white flash, a shape carved out of static and shadow, watching me from the space between seconds. It didn't move. It didn't speak. It just existed in the flicker.
Before I could even think its name, it blinked out.
My knees hit the tiles. There was no pain, only the sensation of falling through an endless, dark floor.
Yinoh hooked his arm under mine, wrapping his frame around half of my body; his support was the only thing keeping me from face-planting into the shifting ground.
"Hash! Stay with me—hey—hey! Look at me!"
His face was a smear of melted colors. The ground slanted at a sickening, forty-five-degree angle. I tried to reach for him, but my fingers wouldn't obey. My vision began to tunnel, the edges turning into jagged lines of code and shadow.
The last thing I heard wasn't the voice in my head. It was Yinoh, his voice cracking with a fear I'd never heard from him before.
"Where's the nurse?! Get her! Now!"
Then the world didn't just go dark. It powered down.
-----------
Few hours later
Warmth.
It was the first thing I registered—a heavy, artificial heat that smelled of ozone and industrial lemon. Then, the hum. The steady, rhythmic drone of a high-end air conditioner.
I peeled my eyes open. The ceiling was a grid of plain white tiles, perfect and unyielding. The violent glare of the school's hallway lights had been replaced by the honey-colored glow of clinic lamps. I breathed in, and the air felt thin and cold against the back of my throat, tasting of disinfectant and metal.
I was in the clinic.
Moving felt like dragging my soul back into a body that didn't quite fit anymore. I turned my head, the friction of the pillow sounding like sandpaper in my ears. Yinoh was there. He was slumped in a plastic chair that looked painfully small for him, his head lolling at an awkward angle between the mattress and his shoulder.
His hand was still wrapped around mine. His grip wasn't tight, but it was constant, as if he were afraid that if he let go, I'd drift back into that sea of static.
Guilt, sharp and cold, twisted in my gut. I hated this. I hated being the reason his posture was ruined in a waiting room. I didn't want to be the person who needed catching. I wanted to be the one standing steady.
"...Idiot," I whispered, my voice a dry rasp. "You didn't have to stay."
He didn't wake, but his fingers twitched against mine. A chill fluttered under my ribs, accompanied by a ghostly echo of the voice from Mom.
"...Not all gifts are given. Some are buried."
My chest constricted. I wasn't sure if I was actually awake or if I was just hallucinating a better reality.
The door didn't just open; it collided with the wall.
"Hasphien!"
Dad practically fell into the room. He was still in his work uniform, his jacket rumpled and his breath hitching in his chest. His eyes scanned me with a frantic, clinical intensity, searching for a wound he couldn't see.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he pressed it to my forehead. The heat of his palm was a stark contrast to the sterile air. "Son... talk to me. Are you feeling better?"
I swallowed hard, trying to hide the way my own hands were shaking under the thin sheet. "Y-yeah. Just dizzy earlier. I'm okay now, Dad. Really."
Yinoh stirred then, blinking away the fog of sleep. He didn't let go of my hand immediately. "His fever dropped an hour ago," he said, his voice thick with fatigue. "The nurse said it was severe exhaustion. I... I called you because he looked so gray, sir. I didn't know what else to do."
Dad exhaled a breath that seemed to carry all the tension of the last hour. His shoulders finally dropped. "Good call, kid. Thank you." He reached over and clapped a hand on Yinoh's shoulder—a firm, grounding gesture. "You're coming home with us. No arguments. I'm not leaving you to walk after all this."
Yinoh managed a small, tired grin. "Yes, sir."
The process of leaving was a blur of paperwork and quiet instructions. The nurse handed over a small envelope of supplements with a look that was both kind and professional. "Hydration and rest," she emphasized, looking directly at me. "No screens. No studying. Just sleep."
I nodded, though the thought of closing my eyes and seeing that silhouette again made my skin crawl.
The walk to the car was an exercise in caution. I felt like a piece of repaired porcelain, held together by nothing but habit and hope. Every step was a test of the ice. Dad led the way, his keys jingling in a nervous rhythm, while Yinoh hovered at my shoulder, close enough to catch me but giving me the space to pretend I was fine.
The drive was silent. The engine's low hum was the only thing filling the space between us. In the backseat, the shadows of the passing streetlights danced across the upholstery. Yinoh settled in beside me, leaning back but keeping an eye on my posture, making sure I didn't slump.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the window. The world outside looked different now—darker, more fragile. Like the whole world was holding its breath, wrapped in the same uneasy silence that was currently waking up inside my bones.
The house welcomed us with a thick, protective silence. It was a space defined by the faint hum of the ceiling lights and the rhythmic, rhythmic tock of the wall clock—sounds that usually felt like home, but tonight felt like echoes in a hollow chamber.
The air inside smelled of warm rice and the sharp, citrus cleaner Dad used every weekend. It was a few degrees cooler than the humid evening outside, enough to send a sudden, prickly wave of goosebumps down my arms.
Dad didn't let me go to my room immediately. He sat me down and ran that strange little diagnostic light along my forearm. The beam was a pale, antiseptic blue, casting long, jittery shadows against the kitchen cabinets as his tablet chirped with every reading.
"Breathe slow, son," he murmured, his eyes never leaving the data scrolling across his screen. He handed me a glass of water, the condensation slick against my palms. "You're running on empty. You need to rest more than you're willing to admit."
He turned to Yinoh, tossing him a fresh towel and my spare gray shirt from the folded laundry. "Sleep over, soldier," Dad said, managing a faint, tired grin. "I'm not having you walk home in the dark after the day you've had."
Yinoh caught the shirt out of the air and gave a mock, two-finger salute, though his eyes were still heavy with lingering worry. "Gladly, sir. The couch is calling my name."
Dad let out a short, dry laugh, the first real sound of relief he'd shown all night. "Sleep beside him, Yinoh. You've practically been sleeping together since you were kids. No need to feel shy just because you're teens now."
I felt a faint heat crawl up my neck despite the chill in my bones. Yinoh's ears went slightly red, but he just shrugged with a sheepish grin. "I mean, if it saves me from the springs in that couch, I'm not complaining."
We went to my room upstairs, and I climbed into bed after changing clothes. The sheets felt colder than I expected, a crisp, biting layer against my skin. The shadows in my room seemed to have grown since morning—they stretched long and jagged across the walls, so still they felt unnatural, like they were waiting for something to move.
Beside me, the mattress dipped as Yinoh settled in on top of the covers. Usually, his presence was loud—constant movement or humming—but tonight he was a statue. He held his phone close to his face, the blue light dimmed to a sliver as he scrolled in silence. He was staying close.
"The nurse said no screens. Sleep, already," Yinoh said, his voice a mix of a joking nag and genuine concern.
I turned my back on him, my gaze drifting toward the doorway. I saw Dad lingering there for a heartbeat longer than usual. His smile was gentle, but I could see the weight of it pulling at the corners of his eyes. When he finally stepped out and clicked the door shut, I heard the subtle shift in his breathing—the way he let out a long, ragged exhale he'd been holding since we left the clinic. I listened to his careful, heavy steps as they receded down the stairs.
He was worried. More than he would ever say out loud.
I stared up at the ceiling, wishing my guilt didn't feel like a physical weight on my chest. I didn't want to be a burden. I didn't want them to look at me like I was made of glass, waiting for the next crack to spiderweb across my face.
But as the house settled into the deep quiet of midnight, the silence began to vibrate.
It was a faint thrum, pulsing beneath the floorboards, vibrating through the frame of my bed. It was a beat that matched my heart, then doubled it. Mine, but not mine. I wondered if Yinoh could feel it through the mattress, or if it was only happening inside my skin.
Something was stirring in the dark spaces between my thoughts. Something that didn't belong to me, yet was weaving itself into my very marrow. It was waking up, and I knew—with a cold, sinking certainty—that the "rest" the nurse promised wasn't coming.
----------
Thiago's POV
After I left the boys to the quiet of the upstairs, I didn't go to bed. I moved through my office like a ghost, my hands trembling as I reached for the hidden compartment in my desk. I pulled out the black tablet intended only for Hasphien's health monitoring.
Tap. Swipe. Confirm.
The screen bled into life, the harsh light reflecting in my glasses. Hasphien's health file flickered into view, rows of color-coded data sliding into place like a falling guillotine.
At first, the graphs were flat. Normal.
Then, the numbers began to bleed.
[ Irregularity detected. ]
[ Mana Intake: -45% (decreasing 5.0% per minute). ]
[ Source: Unknown. ]
A cold, hollow ache spread through my stomach, settling in my bones. "That's not… that's not right," I whispered to the empty office.
I scrolled deeper, my fingers slick with cold sweat.
[ Arkan Status: None Registered. ]
[ Mana Pool: Inactive. ]
[ Thread Activity: UNCLASSIFIED. ]
Unclassified?
The word sat on the screen like a death warrant. My throat tightened until it felt like I was swallowing glass. I looked toward the ceiling, toward the room where my son lay sleeping, oblivious to the fact that his biometrics were breaking every known law of magitech.
"…Hasphien," I breathed, "what are you doing to yourself?"
For a moment, the world stopped. No thoughts. No breath. No sense of time. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the terrifying glow of the tablet. Then—a surge of hope. Fear. A stupid, dangerous mixture of both that made my heart race.
A part of me whispered the impossible, a thought so heretical I almost couldn't form the words: Was he threaded?
I swallowed hard, forcing my lungs to expand. If I told him now, the shock alone might cause a system collapse. If I didn't tell him… something could happen while I wasn't looking. I couldn't risk him waking up and seeing the terror on my face.
My chest burned as I typed a message to Yinoh.
THIAGO: Watch him tonight. If he wakes up, tell him I went out for parts. Don't leave him alone for a second.
The lie felt like lead in my stomach, but the truth was a fire I wasn't ready to unleash.
I grabbed my coat and slipped out the back door, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the quiet neighborhood. I was already halfway to the garage, unaware of the faint, expanding ripple glowing across the tablet screen I'd left on the table.
A digital pulse. A signature.
Something had awakened, and it was already searching for a way out.
----------
In the Lab
The lab was colder than it had any right to be.
A thin skin of frost kissed the metal edges of the heavy machinery, glinting like crushed diamonds under the overhead lights. The lamps flickered once, throwing fractured, jagged reflections across the polished floor. In their containment casings, the crystals pulsed—a low, rhythmic violet glow that seemed to reach out toward the tablet still warm in my hand.
They knew. Even the inanimate components of this room felt the shift.
I plugged the tablet into the main console. The connection port hissed as the systems integrated, and the wall-sized monitors bled into life instantly.
[ Interface S-1 Active. ]
[ Neural Rhythm: Stable. ]
[ Thread Activity: UNCLASSIFIED. ]
[ Mana Intake: Decreasing Abnormally. ]
[ Arkan Source: NULL. ]
I stared at the "NULL" status. It was a mathematical impossibility. Without an Arkan—without that divine thread—there was no engine to pull mana. It was like a lamp lighting up without being plugged into a wall.
Then, a new line of text crawled across the center screen, glowing a sickly, pale gold.
[ Pattern Resemblance: Early-stage artificial threading. ]
I froze. My hand hovered over the keyboard, fingers locked.
"Artificial… threading?" My voice broke, sounding small and hollow in the vast room. "That's not—Hasphien can't—he shouldn't—"
I sank into my chair, the cold leather creaking under my weight. Artificial threading was a ghost story. It was a theory whispered in the back corners of underground research hubs and laughed out of every legitimate academy. It suggested a way to bypass the heavens—to weave a soul without a blessing.
He had no Arkan. No divine link. No celestial favor.
But the data didn't care about theology. It insisted he was absorbing mana in reverse, losing his own energy into something invisible. Something hungry.
A low, tectonic pulse trembled through the lab floor. It wasn't the machinery. It was deeper.
The crystals in the room flared, their light snapping into a synchronized rhythm. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A heartbeat.
It wasn't mine. It wasn't the hum of the city. It was the echo of a boy sleeping in his room, translated through the sensors into a physical vibration that rattled my teeth.
The main terminal began to write a new line, the characters appearing slowly, almost as if the system itself were hesitant to admit what it was seeing:
[ Thread Status: Active (?) ]
[ Source: Unknown. ]
[ Initiating... ]
My skin went ice-cold. Hasphien was in his room, tucked under his blankets, dreaming of a normal life. I was down here, watching his soul rewrite its own code.
The weight of the secret felt like it was crushing my ribs. Should I wake him? If I broke the connection now, would I save his mind or shatter it? Should I keep him in the dark to protect his innocence, or tell him the truth—that something impossible was growing inside his marrow and I had no way to pull the plug?
Fear wrapped tight around my heart, a suffocating grip. But right beside it, a terrifying, beautiful wonder pressed back.
Whatever this was... it wasn't done with him. And as the crystals in my lab pulsed in time with my son's hidden heart, I realized with a jolt of pure adrenaline:
It wasn't done with me, either.