Leo Tanner

The UV lamps flickered overhead. I curled on our threadbare couch, knees pulled to my chest, fingers tracing the worn pattern on the armrest. Beside me lay one of our most treasured possessions, a paper book with actual pages, not a datapad. Its cover faded, binding held together with tape and glue, passed down from my grandfather. One of the few that survived the resource wars. Its pages yellowed and fragile, smelling of age and another world.

Our apartment was small but arranged with care. Dad’s collection of salvaged pre-war tools from my grandpa hung on hooks by the door. Mom’s handmade fabric wall hanging covered the largest crack in the metal paneling, its washed-out colors depicting an ocean none of us had ever seen. The family’s water ration container sat in the corner, half-empty as always by mid-week.

My eyes followed my mother’s movements at the small table, committing each gesture to memory, storing them away like treasures. Her soft humming followed the faint notes of an old love song playing over the dome broadcast.

She worked through a pile of clothes. A strand of wavy brown hair fell loose, tucked behind her ear. Freckles scattered across her face, the ones I counted every night before bed. She leaned close, letting me trace patterns while she told stories about stars we couldn’t see. Despite everything, the long shifts, the ration cuts, the recycled air, she smiled. Not the empty smile most adults wore. Hers was real, holding a secret the rest of us didn’t.

“Leo, come help me,” she said, gesturing toward the pile. “Your father’s work pants need patching again.”

I groaned but joined her. Her fingers guided mine through the worn fabric. Up close, dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her shoulders sagged when she believed I wasn’t looking. The beep of the door unlocking prompted her to straighten the moment our eyes met, hiding the tiredness behind that smile.

Dust puffed from my father’s uniform as he entered, at once making our tiny apartment smaller. He grinned, rubbing a hand over the spiky, close-cropped hair on his head.

“Feel it, Leo. Still pointy today.” He crouched down, bringing his head to my level.

I ran my hand over the bristles, pulling back when they prickled my palm.

He straightened up and took a deep breath. “What do you call a broken filtration system?” he asked, looking between me and Mom with an expectant grin, wiggling his fingers in anticipation.

My mother sighed. I rolled my eyes.

When neither of us answered, he dropped his hands and delivered the punchline anyway. “An air apparent problem!”

“That’s horrible, Dad.”

“Alright, alright, tough crowd,” he said, messing up my hair as he walked past my mother. He paused long enough to lean down and press a quick kiss to the top of her head where her brown hair was parted. His thumb twitched against his palm as he lowered his arm completely then. I pretended I hadn’t seen it. Too many hours in the lower levels where even breathing hurt.

“School today, Leo?” my mother asked without looking up.

“They showed us pictures of butterflies,” I said.

My father sat beside me, the old chair groaning under his weight. “Butterflies used to be everywhere. Every color you could imagine.”

“That can’t be true,” I said, but wanted it to be.

My mother stopped sewing. “The world wasn’t always like this, Leo.”

“Then why do people act like it was?”

My parents exchanged a look. That adult look when they’re deciding how much truth won’t break you.

“It’s easier,” my father said finally. “To forget something better existed.”

My mother cleared her throat. Her needle pushed into the fabric. “Raymond. Don’t say that.” Her eyes narrowed at him. “Things will change, Leo. Don’t listen to your father. Those places the refugees whisper about, the ones with real sun and clean air? They exist. We haven’t found ours yet. And butterflies….still fly there.”

Drops of crimson fell onto the pants in her lap. One. Two. Three. Small red circles spreading across the fabric.

“Mom…”

She touched her face, seeing the red smear on her fingertips. “It’s nothing.”

I blinked with difficulty, and dizziness overcame me.

The floor trembled beneath us. Heavy vibrations pulsed through the concrete, rhythmic and deep. The walls shook, dust raining from the ceiling. The radio on the shelf crackled, then screeched with static before falling silent.

My parents kept talking, but their voices grew fainter. The floor rocked beneath us. A crack snaked up the wall behind my mother, splitting the metal panel in two. They gave no sign of noticing. They sat there, completely motionless, my father with his hand on my shoulder. My mother smiled, blood now streaming from her eyes.

The ceiling fixtures swayed. Pieces of concrete crumbled from above, falling between us. My father patted my head as though nothing was happening. The table split down the middle as the floor began to tilt beneath us.

The fabric wall hanging fluttered loose from its hooks. The radio tumbled from the shelf, crashing to the ground. My mother’s sewing kit skittered across the floor, scattering needles and thread in every direction. Everything we had drifted toward the side, pulled by the shifting ground, the apartment itself eager to let go.

Again? Wasn’t this familiar?

Then the walls gave out. All of them. Metal panels groaned and buckled, then tore open, flimsy as paper seams, the apartment peeling apart in every direction.

Alarms. Always alarms. Were they from then, or now?

Outside wasn’t outside anymore. Just blurs of motion. Screams. A stampede of people where the world had broken open. My parents finally rose from their chairs.

“Move, Leo,” my mother said, blood streaming from her eyes. “We’re right behind you.”

A wave of panicked residents crashed into our apartment. Bodies slammed against us, separating me from my parents. I screamed—

“Stop! Help them! Please—they always helped you!”

No one listened. My voice was swallowed by the roar of feet, of fear. My words broke against backs turned and eyes too full of survival to notice.

I struggled against the current, reaching for my mother’s hand. The crowd pushed me forward, away from them. People shoved toward the evacuation transports in the distance, and I was pulled along with my feet barely grazing the ground.

It was then that my father stepped behind my mother. He nodded at me, and then his eyes lifted toward the broken sky. He raised his hand and pointed upward.

I followed the gesture.

Above us, towering figures moved behind veils of smoke and ruin. Shapes clashing, limbs colliding. Then came the strike.

A single blade drove into the Nephilim’s chest.

The scream followed.

Not a cry. Not even a roar.

The Nephilim’s scream ripped through the world. The screech of collapsing beams, the screech of something that didn’t want to die. The sound bent everything around it, making balance difficult. I put a hand down to steady myself. The noise rattled through concrete, the steel, through my stomach, into the base of my teeth.

My parents stood at the edge of our house, framed by dust and falling debris. My father had wrapped his arms around my mother, shielding her.

Tiny flecks danced in the air, blurring the lines of their faces.

Her eyes met mine. Her lips parted, shaping the start of my name. I wanted to believe she’d say it.

Then, the creature began to fall.

Its body dropped fast, a mountain caving in.

Before it reached them, they both smiled. They both smiled at me.

Tears streamed down my face. “Why are you smiling?” I screamed. “Why are you still doing that?”

But they didn’t stop. Didn’t run. Showed no fear.

They wore that same small, stubborn smile they always wore when things got bad. The one people gossiped about behind their backs. Said they were stupid for still believing, for still caring. That hope was a waste.

But they kept smiling anyway.

Then the Nephilim hit. The impact tore the world out from under me. As their section of the floor vanished beneath tons of steel and rubble, I fell, screaming from somewhere deep. It broke loose from my chest, too much to hold back.

Jolting upright, a gasp tore free as my heart slammed against my ribs, trying to escape.

Reaching for my grandfather’s watch, my fingers fumbled over the bed, searching blindly in the dark. Nothing. The old metal band, always cool to the touch, missing.

I sat still, breathing hard. Was I awake? Or somewhere between? The scream still lingered in my throat, stuck there with unfinished business.

Swallowing was impossible; my mouth was dry, my tongue scraping the roof of my mouth, rough as sandpaper.

Sweat gathered at my brow. I wiped it away with a shaky hand. It had to be a nightmare. I never had nightmares. My mind usually buried those memories deep, replacing them with gentle lies. But this time, something got through.

Focusing was hard, but I forced myself to take slow breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

My body protested every movement. Pain flared deep in my limbs. My left arm shook when I tried to push myself up, struggling to support my weight.

The mattress gave way beneath me without the familiar dips and worn spots my body recognized. The blanket weighed heavily across my thighs, unlike the thin covering I’d patched countless times. The air tasted different—cleaner, warmer. Off.

My breath hitched. Not only my breath.

Someone else’s.

Slow, even breaths sounded through the quiet room. Not mine. A sliver of light spilled from a thin gap where a door nearby stood ajar, cutting across the floor and illuminating the area next to the bed. The sound of breathing came from right there, clear in the stillness.

Panic seized me. My heart, already racing from the nightmare, kicked harder against my ribs. I froze, pressing back against whatever was behind me, eyes wide, straining toward the shadows beyond the strip of light. The sound was rhythmic, deep. Right there.

My eyes darted in various directions before locking onto the source. Using the faint spill of light, I made out the shape.

A chair. And someone slumped in it, with their head tilted back and eyes closed, in a deep sleep. The light caught the edge of a sharp jawline, the curve of a throat.

Callan Pierce?

A choked noise tried to escape my throat, half gasp, half scream. I slapped a hand over my mouth, muffling it, eyes stinging.

Holy shit.