Chapter I: I lost my home

  “On the fifth day, as the heavens burned and the people cried out for their Father, the voice of God was silent. A haunting symphony. A terrible harbinger.”

  The thought had rolled through Nathaniel Blackwood’s mind more times than he could count. A voice within a voice, repeating itself like a mantra, a hymn, or a curse. He could never place where it had begun. It was simply there—woven into the fabric of his memory. Some days it lived in his waking hours, others it clawed its way out in the black fog of sleep. But it never left. Even now, when the nights stretched long and the silence of the world pressed heavy against his ribs, he could still hear the screaming.

  He had done nothing but watch as his friends died in agony. Men he had laughed with, bled with, shared smoke breaks and gallows humor with—torn apart by circumstances he could barely explain, much less process. He couldn’t stop sobbing that night, the grief pushing out of his chest in raw, jagged waves, even as he knelt beside his dying friend, unable to do anything but hold the gaze of a man who had seconds left to live. “What question did you have for him?” the man had asked. His voice was thick with blood, and the island accent he’d carried since they were kids lent the words a kind of haunted weight. “I’ll ask Him for you. Promise.”

  Then the darkness had come.

  A beeping sound pulled him out of the dream, loud and firm, like a fire alarm echoing through water. Nathaniel woke up sweaty and shaking, the air dry in his throat, his mouth cottony and stale like wood shavings. He sat up slowly, every movement deliberate, as if his body might betray him with some invisible fracture. He perched himself at the edge of the bed so that his legs hung over the side, bare feet brushing the cold floor. The bedroom was half-lit with the pale wash of moonlight spilling in through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the edges of his room in a sterile silver glow.

  The television and computer monitors near the front of the room emitted a soft electronic hum and glowed faintly with static. They always did that—some error in the power relay, maybe, or just another glitch in the world. Nathaniel had stopped trying to fix things he didn’t understand. The closet door was halfway open, the familiar row of dark-colored shirts, jackets, and flannels swaying just slightly. He didn’t own anything bright. Not anymore. Black, grey, faded green—those were the shades he could stomach. Bright colors felt like a lie. Like a promise he couldn’t keep.

  From underneath the clothing rack, a small shape emerged. A black figure with glossy eyes, wet and blinking, crawled out from the dark. Kevin, his dog—a mutt with more personality than most people Nathaniel knew. The dog let out a high-pitched yawn, tongue flopping out of his mouth in exaggerated protest against morning. Nathaniel managed a weak smile.

  “Morning, pal,” he said, voice thick with sleep and something heavier. He tried to sound upbeat, but it came out flat, like the dial tone of a disconnected call. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and groaned as he stood up. The movement sent a flare of pain through his knees, and the back of his shins ached with the deep, marrow-deep fatigue that no amount of rest ever seemed to touch. The kind that comes from fear. From grief. From living too long in survival mode.

  He reached up and touched the bandage wrapped around the crown of his forehead. It was dry, crusted with old blood. He’d meant to change it the night before, but he hadn’t had the energy.

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  “I can change it later,” he muttered aloud, as if speaking it made it true.

  Another fight he’d nearly lost, another injury to add to his collection. Yet more scars on an already scarred body that Nathaniel frequently couldn't even look at in the mirror. At least this injury got him time off he thought, something good actually came out of being assaulted by a drunk while patrolling the bars downtown.

  He opened the bedroom door to the hallway, and Kevin waddled past him, nails clicking against the hardwood as he trotted toward the living room. The hallway was dim and narrow, lined with closed doors. Three bedrooms. The one directly across from his was vacant. The middle door steamed at the seams; as if someone had just used the shower. And at the end of the hallway, Greg’s door thumped with music. Nathaniel checked the time on his phone. Six a.m. Officially his day off, though the thought brought no comfort. Rest days only meant he had fewer distractions. Greg’s voice rose above the music, barking with laughter.

  “He fucking thought he was gonna cast protection on me, but the idiot didn’t manage his mana. Got raked by the druid.” Nathaniel shook his head.

  Warcraft again. It was all Greg did anymore—game, yell at strangers through a mic, and treat everyone else in the house like debris.

  Nathaniel’s face tightened at the memory of the night before. He’d come home late, head fogged, fingers still raw from scrubbing out the blood. Not all of it had come out. Some still clung under his nails. He’d sat in front of the door, just breathing, the images playing on loop behind his eyes. Gallark’s dying face. The voice. The blood.

  He moved to the laundry room, boots thudding like weights. It was cluttered but familiar: a washer, dryer, utility sink, and shelves choked with boxes. Protocol was protocol, even at home. After an incident, law enforcement officers were given time to decompress. To recover. Not that anyone told you how to do that. They just handed you paperwork and sent you home to bleed in silence.

  Nathaniel stripped off his tan shirt and the ballistic vest beneath, hands moving with clinical detachment. He peeled off the patches—the nameplate, the county insignia—and placed them in a neat pile. The ballistic inserts came next, then the belt, the holster and gun, the pepper spray, the handcuffs. Finally, his tactical pants. He stood in the flickering light in nothing but a black undershirt and brown socks, looking like a ghost wearing the uniform of a man who’d already died.

  He loaded the clothes into the washing machine and started it. The room vibrated with a low, steady hum. Still, the adrenaline hadn’t faded. His heart was a metronome, ticking too fast. His skin itched like something lived under it. He could still feel the weight of Gallark’s dying body slumping into him. Still hear the gasp. Still see the widening eyes, full of questions he couldn’t answer.

  He leaned forward, hands braced on the edge of the machine, bile rising in his throat.

  Then the door burst open. He spun around, gun drawn before his mind had even caught up. Greg. milk in one hand, jug of water in the other, the door swinging behind him.

  “What the fuck?” Greg had barked. “Get that out of my face!”

  Nathaniel lowered the weapon, embarrassment and frustration flooding in equal measure.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Door slammed open. I didn’t know—”

  “You point a gun at me over a fucking door?”

  “I didn’t know it was you. You kicked it open.”

  Greg glared, lips twitching with rage. “You’re losing it, man.”

  Nathaniel’s jaw clenched. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t have any idea—”

  “This again? Always about you. You and your war stories. Jesus.”

  They stood there, silent and vibrating with unspoken anger. Finally, Greg turned and stalked off, slamming his door. The house shook. Nathaniel stared at the floor. Anger pulsed in his temples, hot and hollow.

  Greg had changed. Somewhere along the way, he’d become cruel in small, sharp ways. Detached. The kind of man who could ignore the people who loved him while begging strangers for approval online. Nathaniel had paid his rent, picked him up from airports, forgiven things he shouldn’t have. But none of that mattered now. After their argument, Nathaniel moved to the bathroom,and turned on the shower. The room steamed with warmth. The hiss of water against tile was almost soothing.

  He stripped and stepped in, sitting down in the tub as the water rained over him. The warmth masked the trembling in his shoulders. He saw Gallark’s eyes again. The scream. The silence that followed. And he let the water drown the sound of his sobbing. No one had to know. Not again. Not yet.