Chapter 4: The Offering
The note sat in my nightstand drawer like a confession waiting to happen.
I'd rewritten it four times. The first draft was too honest—mentioned the system I hoped existed, the death I was planning, the desperate gamble that resurrection might be more than wishful thinking. The second was too vague. The third sounded like a suicide note, which it technically was, except for the part where I intended to come back.
The fourth draft said what needed saying and nothing more:
Danny—if you're reading this, I went somewhere I shouldn't have. Don't blame yourself. Take care of Taylor. I'm sorry I wasn't a better brother.
I slid it beneath a stack of old magazines and closed the drawer. If I came back—when I came back—I'd destroy it. If I didn't, they'd find it eventually.
The afternoon light through my bedroom window painted everything gold. Downstairs, I could hear Danny moving around the kitchen, the familiar sounds of a man who'd learned to fill silence with activity after his wife died. Taylor wasn't home yet. Winslow's dismissal bell wouldn't ring for another forty minutes.
I checked my bag one more time. Dark hoodie. Black jeans. Ski mask from the thrift store on Third Street—paid cash, no questions. The burner phone I'd bought on Day One, still unused. A granola bar because my body would be restored to its state an hour before death, but my mind would remember being hungry.
That detail had kept me up last night. The system—if it existed, if it worked the way I thought it did—restored physical state but preserved memory. Which meant I'd remember dying. I'd remember the fire.
"You've already died once," I told myself. "The car crash. The headlights. You survived that."
Except I hadn't survived. I'd woken up in someone else's body with implanted memories and a second chance I didn't deserve. Surviving wasn't the right word for what happened to me.
Taylor came home at 3:47 PM. I heard the front door, her footsteps on the stairs, the soft click of her bedroom door closing. Homework or cape planning or both—I'd read the web serial twice, but I didn't know her daily schedule. The original Evan hadn't paid enough attention.
I was going to fix that. After tonight. After I proved the system was real.
Danny called us for dinner at 5:30. Leftover pasta from two nights ago, reheated and served with store-bought garlic bread. The kitchen smelled like marinara and burnt butter.
"Good day?" Danny asked, directing the question at Taylor.
She shrugged. Fork scraped against plate. "Mr. Gladly assigned another group project."
"With who?"
"Madison." The name came out flat, careful. "And Greg."
I watched Danny's face and saw the precise moment he failed to connect the dots. Madison was one of Taylor's bullies. Greg was the well-meaning idiot who'd made everything worse during the locker aftermath. Danny knew something was wrong with Taylor—had known for months—but he'd never figured out the specifics.
"Sounds rough," I said.
Taylor looked at me. That same measuring expression she'd been wearing for three days, ever since I started cooking breakfast and asking questions and generally acting like someone who gave a damn.
"It'll be fine," she said.
"You could work on it here. If you wanted."
The pause stretched. Danny was watching us now, clearly confused by the shift in household dynamics.
"Maybe," Taylor said finally. "We'll see."
Progress. Tiny, fragile progress that might mean nothing if tonight went wrong.
I ate my pasta and memorized the way Danny's eyes crinkled when he smiled at a joke Taylor made about her history teacher. I catalogued the way Taylor's shoulders relaxed, incrementally, over the course of the meal. I filed away the pattern of light through the kitchen window and the smell of garlic bread and the specific comfort of being part of something, even if that something was borrowed.
If I didn't come back, I wanted to remember this.
"Going to Marcus's place," I said at 6:28 PM. "Might be late."
Danny looked up from the dishes. "Marcus?"
A name from Evan's implanted memories. A friend who didn't ask questions, who lived on the edge of E88 territory, who wouldn't be surprised by a late-night visit.
"Yeah. We're watching the game."
"There's no game tonight."
Shit. I scrambled for a recovery. "Movie, then. Something he's been wanting to show me."
Danny's expression said he didn't believe me. But he also didn't push—the original Evan had earned that latitude through months of staying out late without incident.
"Be safe," he said.
"Always."
I grabbed my bag from the coat closet and walked out the front door into the cooling April evening. The sun was setting over the bay, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that looked too much like fire.
I walked toward the Docks.
The loading dock was exactly as I'd left it two nights ago. Concrete floor, recessed entrance, shadows deep enough to hide in. I settled against the back wall and checked my watch.
7:03 PM.
Lung would arrive around 9:15, according to the web serial's timeline. Two hours and twelve minutes of waiting.
I'd planned for this. Brought the granola bar, the burner phone, the mental exercises I'd used to get through overnight shifts at the distribution center. But nothing prepared me for the specific quality of waiting to die.
The city sounds filtered in from outside—car horns, distant music, the occasional bark of a dog. ABB territory wasn't quiet, but it had a rhythm. Patrols swept through on schedules I'd memorized during my reconnaissance. Lookouts changed shifts. The warehouse district settled into its nighttime configuration.
At 7:47 PM, I heard gunshots. Three, rapid, from somewhere to the north. E88 territory, probably. The gangs were always shooting at something.
At 8:22 PM, an ABB patrol walked past my loading dock. Three men, same configuration as the one I'd hidden from two nights ago. They didn't check the recessed entrance. I barely breathed until they were gone.
At 8:56 PM, I ate the granola bar. It tasted like cardboard and desperation.
At 9:08 PM, I heard Lung's voice.
Not words—just the rumble of it, like thunder filtered through walls. He was giving orders, probably. Directing his men. Preparing to hunt the teenagers who'd been blamed for killing some of his soldiers.
The Undersiders didn't kill anyone. I knew that. Coil had staged the whole thing, manipulated the ABB into thinking the kids were responsible, set the confrontation in motion as part of some larger scheme I still didn't fully understand. But Lung didn't know that, and Lung didn't care.
I stood up. Brushed dust off my jeans. Pulled the ski mask over my face.
In the loading dock's concrete floor, barely visible in the dim light, I'd traced shapes during the wait. Danny's initials. Taylor's. My own—E.W., not E.H., because Evan Wood was the name of a dead man and I wanted to remember who I'd been.
I wiped them clean with my foot and walked to the edge of the shadows.
Lung stood in the intersection like a monument to violence.
He was already scaling—smoke curled from his skin, and his eyes burned with an inner light that had nothing to do with streetlamps. Six ABB soldiers flanked him, pistols visible, postures alert. They knew what was coming. They were here to support the dragon, not fight alongside him.
I watched from the loading dock's entrance as Lung gave orders in a mix of English and Japanese. The soldiers moved, spreading out toward the warehouses where the Undersiders were supposed to be. Standard sweep pattern. Professional, for gang muscle.
Lung stayed in the intersection. Alone, except for the fire.
Thirty seconds. That's how long the web serial said he waited before following his men. Thirty seconds of vulnerability, or as close to vulnerable as Lung ever got.
I had thirty seconds.
My legs didn't want to move. My brain screamed that this was suicide, that I was betting my life on a system I'd never tested, that even if resurrection was real I'd still remember burning alive.
But I'd already died once. And I'd spent four days preparing for this moment.
I stepped out of the shadows.
"Hey!" My voice cracked on the word. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Hey! Dragon!"
Lung turned.
The movement was slow, deliberate, the patience of a predator who knew nothing in this city could threaten him. His eyes found me—eighteen years old, baseline human, wearing a ski mask like a child playing dress-up—and I watched recognition shift to dismissal.
Not worth scaling for. Not even worth the fire.
"Wrong place," Lung said. His English was accented but clear. "Wrong time. Go home, boy."
I didn't go home. I walked toward him instead.
Every step took more courage than the one before. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, close enough to see the scales beginning to form along his jaw.
"Make me," I said.
Lung's expression didn't change. He raised one hand—casual, almost bored—and the world became fire.
To supporting Me in Pateron.
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes.
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!