For a moment he lay still on the pavement. Then, suddenly, his head jerked upward and Konin watched himself smile as he picked himself off the floor. He ran forward, laughing as he flicked his shoes into the sky and stripped off his uniform, then his undergarments—until only his underwear and the bag slung over his shoulder remained. Mr. Smith’s voice yelled in the background, but Konin was already halfway over the school fence. The video ended as he jumped.

Konin groped for words; Tav watched him, eager. “Delete that,” he said finally.

“No,” Tav laughed.

“I’m being serious.” He lunged for the phone but was a moment too late.

“No!” she cackled. “I’m not even done yet—there’s still one more.” She scrolled for the next clip. Konin’s shoulders sagged. “There’s more?” he asked, defeated.

“Yeah—this one’s from when we tried to find you. We checked all the nearby cameras around the school and found you again, two hours later...” She tapped the video and Konin leaned in. “…at a clothes store.”

The footage opened on customers buying items and paying at the counter. A boy walked in wearing only boxers, his hair a mess, each step accentuating his muscles. People recoiled and avoided him; the clerks didn’t even try to intervene, phones already to their ears. He browsed, picked out clothes—the same jacket and jeans Konin wore now—tried them on in the aisle, then walked to the counter and threw something at the cashier before dissolving into a pool of liquid that splashed across the floor. The clip cut.

Konin shoved his hand into his pocket, fumbled for his wallet, sighed and leaned back against the bus-stop glass, staring at the graffiti-stained ceiling. “It was my card,” he muttered. “I threw my card away.”

Tav put her phone away at last, and Konin kept staring at the ceiling. “Wanna talk about it?” she asked, still smiling.

“No.” He ran his hands through his hair. “No.”

Tav leaned back to study him. His eyes seemed to glow in the light; his hair and the beginnings of a beard made his face look older. She reached out and ruffled his hair. He met her gaze.

“We all have bad days, Konin. Don’t let it get to you. A few months from now it’ll be like it never happened, okay?”

“…’Kay,” he whispered.

A murmur rose around them. They both looked up. Streaks of white fell from the sky and children laughed; others squealed. “It’s snowing,” Tav said flatly. Konin bit his finger.

“Tav.” He called.

“Yeah?” As she turned, Konin slipped his finger into her mouth. She shivered at the metallic taste and spat onto the pavement. “What’s wrong with you?!” she demanded, glaring, but Konin only stared at the blood and saliva mixing on his fingertip before putting it to his lips.

“Are you crazy?!” Tav stood.

Konin withdrew his finger. “How’s your leg?”

Tav lifted her foot and tapped it against the ground. The swelling was gone; there was no pain. “How did you—?” she breathed.

“It’s an ability I have. Apparently my blood can heal people. Oh—keep it a secret. Mum said I shouldn’t tell anyone.” He looked embarrassed.

Tav stared for a moment, then nodded. “…Right. Thank you.”

He nodded back. She was about to sit when the hiss of air announced the bus. She glanced at it, then at him, opened her mouth and closed it again. Konin settled into his seat. “Aren’t you getting on?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah.” She climbed the steps. “See you later, Konin.”

He watched the doors close. Only after the bus pulled away did he remember she still had the videos. He slapped his forehead. Idiot.

Snow kept falling, and Konin watched as white streaks dissolved into the ground. His lips were pressed flat; the wind blew his hair across his eyes.

Konin sat in silence. His hands shook in an endless fit. He lifted the drink to his mouth, but even that was too much. It spilled down, soaking through his trousers. The lid of his shoe hung loose as the dark liquid seeped into the white leather. He stared at his hands, his brow furrowed. He interlocked his fingers, pushed his hair back, and said, “You piece of shit.”

The drink arced to the ground, a trail of liquid following behind as Konin walked away. The last drops mixed with the snow.

Keys jiggled—light clacks—then the door swung open, spilling light into the dark room.

“Nothing.” Konin stepped inside, kicked off his shoes, and immediately the lights at the entrance flicked on. “I didn’t feel anything.”

He moved into the living room. The lights flared on around the house as if responding to his steps. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

He climbed the stairs, went straight into his room, plugged in his phone, and pulled his hoodie over his head.

His head swayed. He struggled to stay upright, bracing himself against the footboard of his bed. He forced out a breath, yanked the hoodie off, and tossed it to the floor. Then he sat on the bed.

He breathed slowly, rubbing his brows. “Of what?”

He turned to the right. His eyes were still, but his hands kept shaking.

“Maybe,” he said, and started to take off his trousers. “No, it’s just… weird.”

He crossed to his wardrobe and began putting on clothes. When he was done, he went back downstairs into the kitchen. “No, that’s okay. I’m fine.”

He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk. He took a few sips—spaced out, like he was counting—then leaned against the counter. “I’m fine.”

He walked to the restroom beside the entrance. He stopped in front of the mirror and leaned on the sink, staring at his reflection. Bags had formed under his eyes, and his lips were chapped.

“I’m fi—”

He retched.

Again and again. Each time he stopped, it felt like a bone lodged in his throat. He bent over as vomit poured out. He turned on the tap and rinsed his mouth, his reflection remained as it was—blank and unblinking—staring down at himself until he bent over and followed his own movements: retching, coughing, gagging.

Konin spat into the sink, then lifted his head to his reflection again and wiped his lips. “Everything’s fine.”

At the entrance, pictures hung on the wall—memories of family, portraits without a signature. Konin walked over to a vase filled with blue flowers. He brushed the petals with his finger, then dragged in the scent as if it could anchor him.

A whistle blew—faint, but clean.

Konin let the flowers go and stepped into the living room.

The whistle grew louder, deepening, spiraling as it drew closer. Then the alarm rang—so loud that Konin had to clamp both hands over his ears. Through the glass doors, he watched the outside brighten. A flickering crimson spread beyond the backyard, growing louder in its own way, streaking across the dark. Sweat slid down his face.

The ground shuddered. Dust sifted from the ceiling. Wardrobes crashed to the floor; the milk bottle he’d left on the counter shattered as the house buckled.

He stumbled toward the doors, reaching for the handle—

—but something slammed into him from behind. Heavy and sudden, it drove him straight through the glass. The doors shattered instantly. Konin flew into the air, and for a moment it felt as if time had stopped.

Tight hands seized his back. He looked up at the sky—and then rubble flashed past him: fire and ash pouring into the air, swallowed by a sea of flames that clawed at the night and devoured the sky. The highest floors of his home were already gone.

He hit the ground, scrambled to his feet, and the light vanished. He was no longer where he’d been.

“Konin!”

A voice yanked at his arm. He slapped it away, ready to strike—until he saw his mother’s face. His fist froze in the air.

Far away, an explosion thundered. A violent gust shoved them backward, and the ground trembled beneath their feet. Konin staggered, but his mother pulled him into her arms, using her body as a shield as debris rained down and the light flared again—like a star burning on earth.

Then the wind eased. Konin opened his eyes.

He could hear his mother whispering, again and again, as if the words were a spell: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

She sang it like a mantra while she pressed her cheek along his neck. Konin could feel the sting of her tears and the cold of the snow. His gaze slipped past the city view—past the tall buildings and the shouting far below—until he saw it again:

The glowing light from the sea of flames, rising toward the heavens, leaving behind smoke and wreckage.

Every time the smoke parted, a star appeared—bright, falling out of place. Konin lifted his hands and placed them on his mother’s back.

“I’m sorry,” she kept weeping.

But Konin didn't look away. Not even when helicopters hummed overhead, not even when sirens ripped through the air. He squeezed her tight with shaking hands and stared at the stars.