The Warning
1225 Words
Morning arrived too loudly.
Mira woke to the rattling of pots in the kitchen, her mother humming a worship tune far too bright for the way Mira’s body felt. Her skin throbbed like someone had traced burning ink beneath it. Every muscle felt stretched thin, as if the electricity from the night before still flickered in her bones.
When she sat up, the light stabbed her vision. The room spun for a moment, slow, circular, nauseating.
She braced herself, breathing through the dizziness.
The mark on her arm, the faint silver thread, was brighter today. Almost pulsing. Like it had something to say.
She didn’t want to hear it.
A soft knock. “Mira, are you awake?” her mom’s voice floated through the door.
“Yes,” Mira croaked. She cleared her throat. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
She heard hesitation on the other side. Her mother was intuitive in the worst and best ways; she sensed storms before clouds formed. But Mira couldn’t open the door yet. She needed a moment where she wasn’t someone’s daughter or someone’s potential patient or someone’s mystery.
She needed to be a girl with questions. Alone.
When she finally went downstairs, her mother turned, eyes narrowing at the way Mira braced herself on the railing.
“You’re moving like someone’s grandmother,” she said, folding her arms. “Are you sick?”
“No.” Mira slid into a seat. “Just tired.”
Her mother studied her longer than necessary. “You’ve been acting strange for weeks. If you’re stressed, talk to me.”
Mira forced a smile, but it cracked at the edges. She didn’t know how to say, I borrow powers at midnight, and someone dies when I do. It sounded insane even inside her own head.
Before her mother could press further, her phone vibrated on the table.
A message from an unknown number:
STOP RUNNING. MEET TONIGHT. 9 PM. OLD ARCADE BEHIND FREEDOM PARK. COME ALONE.
Underneath was a second message.
YOU WON’T SURVIVE MANY MORE MIDNIGHTS.
Her heart punched her ribs.
She locked the phone and shoved it under her leg before her mother could see her reaction. But her mind burned.
Was it the Breathers? Someone else? The Archivist? Or… Taye?
No, Taye wouldn’t threaten her.
At least… she hoped not.
School was a blur. Teachers spoke, but Mira heard nothing but the buzzing in her skull. Every time she blinked, she saw the silver mark on her skin glowing in the dark.
The deaths on the news.
Taye’s haunted eyes.
Her own name vibrating in the unknown message.
You won’t survive many more midnights.
A chilling reminder: her powers weren’t gifts. They were countdowns.
By lunch, she had decided she wasn’t going to the meeting.
By the end of the school day, she knew she had to.
The world shifted in the evening. Lagos always felt alive, but tonight it felt watchful, like something unseen stalked between the streetlights.
Mira approached Freedom Park from the back road, pulling her hoodie tighter. The old arcade building loomed behind it, graffiti-covered, abandoned for years. Wind whispered through the broken windows. The air smelled like dust and something else… something metallic.
She stepped inside.
Her phone flashlight cut through the dim. The arcade was a graveyard of rusted machines, shattered screens, and forgotten tokens.
“Hello?” she called softly.
A figure stepped out from behind an old air-hockey table.
Mira inhaled sharply.
It wasn’t Taye.
It wasn’t a Breather.
It was a girl, maybe seventeen, with short braids, dark skin, and a slice of silver light running down her collarbone. Her eyes glowed faintly, as if catching moonlight where none existed.
“You came,” the girl said.
Mira held her ground. “Who are you?”
“My name is Fena.” Her voice was low, steady, but laced with exhaustion. “I’m like you.”
Mira’s pulse stuttered. “What does that mean?”
Fena raised her wrist, showing her own silver mark. “We borrow. At midnight. We wake with a stranger’s gift… and a stranger’s death on our conscience.”
Mira’s stomach turned. “So you know how to stop it?”
Fena shook her head. “If I did, I wouldn’t be dying.”
Mira froze. “What?”
“It drains you,” Fena whispered. “Every night, the body takes more than it gives. Borrowers don’t last long. I’ve survived six months. That’s… unheard of.”
Six months.
Mira swallowed. She’d barely survived one.
“Why message me?” Mira asked.
“Because the Archist,” Fena stopped, corrected herself. “The one you call the Archivist. He’s looking for you. More urgently than he ever looked for me.”
“Why?”
Fena stepped closer. Her eyes were full of something heavy—fear, regret, helpless knowledge. “Because you’re different. You don’t just borrow powers, Mira. You amplify them. You hold them longer. You produce more energy than any Borrower he’s tracked.”
Mira backed up instinctively. “I don’t understand.”
Fena’s voice trembled now. “He thinks you’re the final piece to restoring what he lost. And if he reaches you before we do… he won’t stop. Not until he extracts everything inside you.”
“Extract?” Mira whispered. “As in”
“Your life. Your power. All of it.”
For a moment, the world wobbled. A coldness crept through Mira’s chest.
“I didn’t choose this,” Mira said, her voice cracking.
“None of us did.” Fena looked away. “But you still have a chance I never had.”
“What chance?”
“To find the Source.”
Mira frowned. “Source of what?”
Fena met her gaze directly. “Of the midnight power. Of the deaths. Of us.”
That word hung in the air like smoke.
Us.
Not one Borrower. Not a rumor. A network.
“How many?” Mira asked quietly.
Fena’s expression was tight. “There used to be twenty-seven. Now there are seven.”
Mira’s breath caught. “The others…”
“Dead.” Fena didn’t soften it. “Borrowed too much. Borrowed too long.”
The arcade creaked around them, as if responding.
Mira felt suddenly, violently small.
“What do you want from me?” Mira whispered.
Fena reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She pressed it into Mira’s palm.
“A location,” Fena said. “Somewhere the Archivist fears. Somewhere he can’t reach us. Go there at midnight tomorrow. Don’t bring anyone.”
Mira hesitated. “Why can’t I go tonight?”
Fena clenched her jaw. “Because I won’t be alive tonight.”
Mira’s breath left her in a sharp gasp.
“Fena”
But Fena was already turning away, the faint glow under her skin flickering like a dying candle.
“Use your nights wisely, Mira,” she said without looking back. “Borrow time while you still can.”
Then she disappeared into the shadows.
Mira stood alone in the broken arcade, the slip of paper shaking in her hand, her heart pounding like a countdown she couldn’t stop.
And for the first time, she understood:
Midnight wasn’t a gift.
It was a debt.
And the debt collector was coming.
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