Bound to the Fallen Deity

The light of the screen burns my eyes, but I keep typing. If I stop, even for a second, I'll notice how stiff my shoulders are or how much my wrists hate me. Better to keep moving and pretend I'm part of the machine. "Lee." Mr. Grant voice cracks across the floor like a whip. He's standing in this office, on the other side of the glass wall, tie half-askew, as if he's battled through a day of real labor, though we all know the hardest thing he's lifted is his over-price coffee. He cracks a finger to summon me inside, then points at his monitor. "You call this finished?" He grumbles. "This deck is sloppy. Half the chart doesn't line up, and the words read like a sophomore pitch at community college." Heat crawls up my neck. "I followed the template you gave me." My voice is too small even for my own ears. "That excuse might pass in school," he says, shaking his head, "but this is a professional agency. If you can't keep up, maybe we should revisit whether you belong here at all." I bite the inside of my cheek until it stings. My brain immediately drafts three snappy comebacks. Any of them is good enough to get me fired on the spot. So I do the smart things: I nod once. From the next cubicle, Hannah leans just far enough to peek over the wall. Her eyebrows shoot up in exaggerated disbelief. She curves her mouth into that "he's out of his mind" look that always comforts me. "I'll fix it tonight." I try to keep my voice calm, though my nails leave little crescents in my palm. Grant gives a sharp nod and waves me towards the door. As I leave his office, the sour taste of his words lingers. Hannah rolls closer when I get back to my desk, "Sloppy? Really? The man couldn't line up a bar chart himself." A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. "Don't get me started." "Maybe you should," Hannah says with a grin. She digs into her drawer and slides a candy bar across my desk like contraband. "Dinner of champions." I peel it open, grateful for the sugar, even though it tastes too sweet and probably expired sometime last spring. The clock glares 9:12. Most of the city is already winding down. I am still here like a ghost under fluorescent light. No one is waiting for me. My father has his new wife and two catalog-perfect kids. My mother has her carefully curated life across town, where my name barely makes it into conversation. Here, I'm just another body grinding through deadlines. To my parents, I'm the spare puzzle piece that never found its place his their lives. Hannah bumps her shoulders against mine. "Come on. Once we get this finished, greasy noodles. My treat." I smile at her. She's my only anchor in this place, proof that I haven't completely disappeared. "Deal," I say. And for the first time tonight, the weight in my chest eases, just a little. -------- By the time Hannah and I finished the noodles, it is close to eleven. The building gets dark behind us, and the night air feels damp and heavy with the smell of fried food from the cart. "Sure you don't want to share a cab?" Hannah pulls her jacket tight. I shake my head. "The walk clears my head." She gives me that look that says she does not approve nor she push. That's Hannah's gift. She knows when to stop pressing. With a quick wave, she heads toward the cab line. I turn the opposite way to the quieter street that will lead me home. The sidewalks are mostly empty. The neon glow of storefronts paints the puddles with streaks of pink and green. My shoes click against the concrete. It should feel familiar, but something presses against me tonight, heavier than usual. I cut through the narrow alley beside the laundromat to save five minutes off the walk. Halfway through, I stop. There is something going on ahead. At first, I think it is a mugging. Three figures circle one man under the streetlight. Their shapes are wrong. Their movements are jerky, like film frames skipping. The air bends strangely around them, and shadows ripple off their limbs as if they are wearing smoke instead of skin. The man at the center is tall with broad shoulders. He wields a blade that catches the light. It is not steel; it gleams darker, as though it has swallowed the night. Blood already stained his shirt, streaking down his side in a color that should not exist, something caught between crimson and silver. I should run. Every instinct screams at me to back away, to pretend I never saw this. Instead, I step forward, the pulse hammering in my throat. One of the creatures slashes across the man's arm. He staggers and drops to one knee. I grab a rusted pipe leaning against the wall. It feels slippery in my sweaty palms, but I swing it anyway, slamming it against the nearest shadow. It makes a static breaking sound, a scream without air, and twists toward me. My breath snags. I clumsily raise the pipe again in desperation. But before the shade reaches me, the man surges up and drives his blade clean through his body. The creature dissolves like ash into the air. The other two shriek. One darts for me. I stumble back, and in panic, I grab a trash can lid and lift it like a shield. The impact rattles through my bones, but it holds long enough. The man swings again, and the shadow falls apart. The last one halts. Its head jerks, almost like it hears something I cannot. Then it melts backward into the dark and vanishes. Silence floods the alley. The man sways, lowering his weapon. Blood glimmers as it drips to the pavement. He staggers, then collapses against the wall. I stand frozen with a heavy chest. I hear a drumbeat in my ears. The pipe slips through my hands with a clang as I come closer to him. "Hey! Are you okay?" I reach out, then pull my hand back. A long moment passes; I gather my courage to touch his shoulders. He flinches, then goes still. His eyes open and for a second my stomach drops. They are not any colors I know. Those eyes are silver with a flash that feels like stormlight. The confusion is quickly overridden by sharpness, as if he has memorized my face. My brain starts listing facts like a nervous parent: a stranger in a valley, who knows what he is. Maybe I should run, call the police. Every sensible voice in my head argues the same thing. But beneath all of that is another, louder thought that will not shut up. I know how it feels to be left behind. "I think you need help," my voice cracks on the last word. He does not answer. He is heavy when I try to lift him, denser than he looks. My arms shake as I slide his arms across my shoulders. Step by step, I force us up, my legs burning and my mind whispering that this is a stupid mistake, and I am an i***t. -------- By the time I get him up to my apartment, my arms feel like wet noodles. Each step is a battle, but somehow, we make it. I manage to fumble my keys out of my bag, push the door open with my shoulders and drag him inside. The faint smell of old furniture, books and coffee hit us as soon as the door cracks. My place is too small and cluttered for someone like him. I lower him onto the couch, and the springs complain beneath his weight. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing hard and staring at the stranger bleeding on my sofa. His features are almost too perfect, as if someone carved him out of something colder than flesh. Blood stains his shirt, and in the light it glimmers strangely. It is not a deep red color but something darker, almost metallic. "Okay," I rub my forehead and whisper to myself. "This is insane." I grab the first aid kit from under the sink and kneel beside him. My hands shake as I peel back the torn fabric around the wound. It is worse than I thought, a deep s***h cutting through his chest. The edges of the skin shimmer faintly, as though the wound itself rejects my touch. When I press the gauze against him, his eyes snap open. I freeze. His stare locks onto mine, and for an instant his irises shift with a silver flicker. "You should not have brought me here," he says. His voice is low and ragged. It is heavy with something that feels larger than the room. "I think you need help," I manage through my dry throat. "And unless you know a twenty-four-hour clinic for... whatever you are, this is the best you're going to get." He does not move nor speak. He only watches me, unrelenting. I tape the bandage in place with anxious hands. Each second stretches thin. The silence hums. Finally, his lips part again. "You should not have seen this." I open my mouth to ask who he is but stop when his eyes shift once more. This time his gaze pins me, and he speaks my name. "Skye Lee." I never told him who I was. The room tilts, my pulse loud in my ears. If he knows my name, what else does he know?