>>>LOCATION: 25 MILES FROM JFK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

>>>LOCAL TIME: 8:45

>>>STATUS: 365 DAYS UNTIL THE CALAMITY

The moment his eyes open, the world slams back into motion.

The aircraft groans to a halt, releasing a low mechanical sigh as the engines wind down. Overhead compartments spring open and the cabin stirs; passengers stretch, shuffle, and retrieve their bags in practiced chaos. The rustle of coats, the thud of feet, the murmur of tired voices—it all blurs into background noise.

Livio lingers in his seat for a moment, blinking to clear the haze in his head. Then, slowly, he rises. He opens the overhead bin, pulls down his black backpack, and slings it over his shoulders.

After stepping off the plane, he moves along the jet bridge—narrow, metallic, and uncomfortably cool. The slightly chilly air bites at his skin, and his breath fogs faintly in front of him. Each footstep echoes hollowly against the steel walkway.

Livio flips open his old flip-phone; plastic creaks as it snaps open, green backlight spilling across the keypad.

Livio’s thumb hovers over the tiny rubber buttons as he types:

Just landed. Terminal 4.

The message crawls across the monochrome screen before he hits Send.

Livio closes the phone with a sharp clack and slips it back into his pocket.

The text is on its way to his supposed uncle, Ace Granger.

The terminal hits him all at once: harsh fluorescent lights, the mixed aroma of coffee and disinfectant, and the low roar of hundreds of conversations blending with the rumble of rolling suitcases. Vaulted ceilings stretch above, dotted with skylights that reflect off polished floors, and departure boards flicker overhead, streams of green and red text flashing across the space. A distant announcement drones through the speakers, but he isn't focused on it.

Baggage claim isn’t any calmer. Livio maneuvers through a crowd gathered around the carousel as it whirs in its endless loop, spitting out luggage. After a little while, there’s his suitcase—black, pristine, clearly never used before this trip. Yep, that’s Livios.

Past the sliding doors, the Arrivals Hall explodes with energy.

People collapse into embraces. Laughter and tears mix together like a holiday ad. A young man clutches a bouquet, scanning the crowd. A girl with a skateboard launches into someone’s arms, maybe her sister. A few people in suits and sunglasses scan the crowd, looking for someone important. None of it matters to Livio.

Livio finds a bench near the windows and sits, setting his suitcase beside him. Letting the noise move around him.

His phone buzzes.

On my way! runing a little lat – Ace Granger, 8:52 PM

"see u soon."

"ps my condoles"

…What? Is he dyslexic? Or just typing in a rush? Whatever. Livio flips the screen dark and slips the phone into his hoodie pocket.

His reflection peers faintly back at him in the window glass. Beyond it, the city glows, huge, and alien.

At least Livio’s arrived.

Now he has to wait.

Lots of waiting later...

It’s been twenty-three minutes since his uncle’s message. Still nothing.

Livio’s holding the old Polaroid Yaga gave him, thumb brushing over its worn edges. The image is grainy, sun-faded. He’s scanned every face that’s passed through the terminal since landing. None even come close.

Not that you’d miss him. His face is the kind that sticks with you.

Still, the longer Livio waits, the more ridiculous it feels.

He sinks into the bench with a sigh, watching the crowd move around him. The phone in his pocket feels like an anchor—something familiar in this flood of strangers and fluorescent light. Livio pulls it out, just to distract himself.

Yaga probably put a plan on it, because sure enough, the bars are strong.

Livio scrolls through the contacts—or contact, singular. There’s only one. No point texting his uncle again. He closes the phone, sighs, and shoves it back in his pocket.

What now…?

Livio’s eyes drift up. Across the terminal, mounted above the seating area, a row of televisions flickers. Grainy, muted, standard-definition screens loop the evening news.

One banner catches his attention:

“FOUR MORE BODIES FOUND IN CITY SEWER SYSTEM”

The anchor’s voice comes through, calm but grave, and that announcer flair:

“Good evening. We’re following developing news out of New York City, where authorities have discovered four more bodies in the sewer system. For more, we go live to our reporter on the scene, Karen-Karen.”

The screen flickers, then cuts to a handheld camera in a dimly lit street near a sewer grate. Karen’s voice is tense:

“Thanks, Mark. Police are currently combing several boroughs’ underground tunnels. So far, they’ve confirmed four additional victims in what appears to be a continuing string of deaths. Authorities are keeping details scarce, but early reports indicate remains have been found in drainage pipes and, in some cases, even coming up from drains.”

Back in the studio, the anchor nods gravely. “Any indication of a suspect at this time?”

Karen shakes her head. “Not at all. Police have not released any names, and while speculation runs rampant on online forums, the department insists they’re treating this as an ongoing investigation and warns the public not to jump to conclusions.”

Even with the crude, flickering monitors, Livio feels his stomach twist.

 Suddenly, the air feels a little heavier.

...Maybe that’s enough news for today.

Livio lowers his gaze and scans the crowd again, just in case. Maybe someone here matches the photo—someone with the same sharp eyes or soft smile his mother had. Of course, nothing. Just a river of strangers flowing endlessly through the terminal, dragging squeaky-wheeled luggage and clutching overstuffed backpacks.

He takes the photo and crams it in his pocket

A little girl cries somewhere behind him, her voice sharp and shrill against the low, constant murmur of voices. Still no sign of Ace.

He exhales and tips his head back, staring up at the cracked ceiling tiles as frustration coils in his chest.

This is ridiculous. Livio’s supposed to be moving in with a family member he’s never met—someone he didn’t even know existed until a week ago. For all he knows, his uncle could be some unhinged psycho with a basement full of skin suits. Or maybe he’s just another washed-up nobody drowning in debt, living out of a one-bedroom apartment in some slum in the city like Livio has seen in those documentaries. How the hell is someone like that supposed to—

A voice cuts through his thoughts, sharp and gruff.

“Hey, brat. You’re in my seat.”

Brat? That can’t be...

He lowers his gaze and finds himself staring at a pudgy man, thick in the shoulders but soft around the middle. Balding, with hair that clings desperately to the sides of his scalp. His cheap gray suit hasn’t seen a dry cleaner since the last time he had hair. Thick gold rings, five of them, flash under the terminal lights, and his pinky nail, long and yellowed, hints at someone who works with chemicals. Maybe solvents. Or maybe something that doesn’t exactly fall on the legal side of the line.

The man’s girlfriend is the polar opposite—almost a foot taller, sharp angles softened by the luxury draped across her frame. Designer heels, a handbag that costs more than your entire wardrobe, and gum snapping between perfect teeth. She doesn’t even look up from her phone, scrolling with the kind of boredom that comes from knowing exactly how much she’s worth to him. Classic gold-digger setup. You’d bet good money she’s texting a group chat full of other guys—

“Yeah, YOU,” the balding man snaps, yanking you out of your spiral.

“We were sitting here, me and my girl. So I suggest you scram.” He taps his foot.

There was absolutely no indication that someone had claimed the seat.

"I didn't see anything occupying the seat, sir." , said Livio.

Livio rose quickly.  

The man sneers, stepping forward as if expecting him to flinch. Livio doesn't.  

He’s close enough that the stink of fish and piss clings to his breath. Still, at 5 '11, Livio’s got a few inches on him, but that doesn't seem to matter.  

"Sorry if I offended you, but I really don’t mean any trouble," Livio said in a monotone voice. He doesn't have the energy for this.  

The balding man shoulder-checks Livio and flops into his seat. His girlfriend follows, plopping down beside him without looking up from her phone.  

Livio hovers awkwardly, clutching his backpack strap. Every other seat in this section is full, and his other bag¦ still wedged between his now-occupied seat and the one next to it.  

“Could you hand me my other bag?” Livio says calmly. “I left it right next to you. Apologies.”

He ignores him, thumb scrolling on his phone like he doesn’t exist.  

His girlfriend notices, wrinkling her nose as Livio’ has tracked in something foul. He checked himself, he showered today. Pretty sure, anyway.  

    “Oh my God," she drawls, chewing her gum. “Is this kid, like, still standing here, babe?”  

Now the man looks up.  

“I thought I told you to beat it.”

“Yeah, but my bag-”

He stands abruptly.  

“I. Said. Scram.” he spits, jabbing a finger at Livio. “Before I turn your stick arms into backpack straps.”

The grin comes back, uglier now, as he lifts his coat just enough for Livio to see the outline of something heavy and metallic pressed against his waistband.  

His pulse spikes. The man sneaked it past security. He wants to step up, take your seat, and threaten you? Normally Livio could be forgiving, but he doesn’t have the energy. Time to cut this scene short.  

“Give me my bag first.” he says, louder this time, the edge in Livio’s voice surprising even himself.  

The balding man’s grin drops, replaced with something colder. He steps closer, sour breath making Livio stomach churn.  

“You don’t seem to understand, brat." he hisses.

 A voice slices through the tension.

"Leave the kid alone."

Livio and the man turn toward the sound. In the middle of the terminal—just a few feet away, amidst the endless tide of travelers, stands an imposing figure.

Dark-skinned, with a short, spiky afro, he wears a black biker jacket over a white tank top, dark green cargo pants tucked into heavy boots. A silver cross dangles at his neck, catching the terminal lights with a faint glint.

One eye is hidden beneath a camo-patterned adhesive patch, framed by thick, furrowed brows. A jagged scar cuts upward underneath it from his jawline, running all the way across his face to the edge of his forehead. His hands remain buried in his pockets.

But what truly seizes Livio’s attention is his other eye, bright gold, piercing. It’s locked on the man before Livio.

“Eh?” the balding man grunts.

He waddles forward, trying to get in the stranger’s face. A ridiculous attempt, given the height difference. The stranger stands a full torso taller—six-six, maybe six-seven if Livio’s estimate of his proportions is right, and his oddly accurate analyses are never wrong. Doesn't seem to be lanky either; he can see the faint outline of muscle pressed up against his white tank-top.

The shift in tension doesn’t go unnoticed. The air in the terminal changes, voices dulling, footsteps slowing, people drifting back. Livio can feel their attention converging here. So nosy.

The tall man notices too, clicking his tongue

“Who the hell are you?” the balding man finally spits, though his tone rings hollow. “This kid’s got nothing to do with you, so mind your own business, bastard," He turns back around, seemingly believing the tall man to have now been scared off.

He was wrong.

“That wasn’t a suggestion.” The Tall man affirms.

A vein pulses at the balding man’s temple, swelling, ready to burst. That one line had pushed him straight over the edge.

“Get off me,” he snarls. “Or you’re the one who’s gonna have a bad day. You dirty little ape.”

His hand shifts at his waistline again, a not-so-subtle threat. The tall man’s expression doesn’t change, however. He doesn’t even look at him—or at Livio. His gaze is fixed somewhere far off, like he’s holding back something. Rage, no—Annoyance, maybe. Whatever it is, it isn’t directed at anyone here.

The balding man tries to slap away his hand. It doesn’t budge. Not even an inch.

He starts to spit more venom, possibly winding up to punch him—

 Suddenly, the air changes.

It feels heavier, though not with pressure. More like the weight of a shadow settling over the world. Livio feels a familiar sensation crawl across his back, a foreboding he’s felt before. Not often, only a handful of times when training with Yaga. But this… this is different.

For an instant, Livio swears his thoughts bleed into the balding man’s, overlapping.

What… is this feeling…?

No one else seems to notice. The crowd is fixated on the confrontation itself, some gawking, some whispering, some even laughing.

Then something… really strange happens.  

He can’t tell what’s racing through the man’s head, but his color drains fast. First it’s just a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Then the tremor in his hands. Even his pupils dilate, wide and panicked.  

Drip.

The sound is small but sharp, impossible to ignore. Livio is sure the people around you hear it too.  

Drip. Drip.

His eyes follow the sound.  

Ah.  

A dark wet patch spreads across the front of the balding man’s pants, blooming like ink in water.  

It trickles down his leg, dripping onto the floor, pooling into a distinctly yellow puddle.  

The terminal gasps as one. And then, like a wave breaking, the laughter starts.  

“He’s… he’s pissing himself—holy shit!” someone whispers, too loud.  

Livio just stares. It’s surreal.

The balding man’s girlfriend recoils with a shriek, flailing her hands like she’s suddenly been splashed.  

“Eeeew! Ew! Ew, ew, ew!” she screeches, her voice shrill enough to cut through the din.  

The balding man stares down at himself, frozen, as though his brain can’t process what’s happened.  

“Wh—what the fuck…?” His voice cracks, high and uneven.  

“Oh my God!” she yells, face twisted in disgust. “How old are you?! If you’ve got, like, bladder problems, at least wear diapers or something, you nasty—ugh!”  

Her disgust curdles to rage. She yanks her purse off the chair and spins on her heel, heels clicking hard against the tile.  

“Forget the trip,” she hisses, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m done. Sugar daddies are gross and old and—ugh!” The rest of her words trail off, drowned by the sound of scattered, disbelieving laughter.  

The man watches her leave, stunned, his mouth half open like he wants to call her back.

Slowly, he turns, eyes burning, to face the tall man.