The sky over Hillbrow sagged with a heavy gloom, thick clouds pressing down like the weight of judgment. A thin drizzle misted the air, coating cracked pavements and bullet-stained walls. The stench of rot—both physical and moral—hung in every corner.
Phantheia stood barefoot on a rooftop, her long shadow stretching over a city already rotting in fear. She was not a god, nor a devil. She was a consequence—a living embodiment of karma, cursed to exist because humanity no longer feared judgment but still feared punishment.
She watched as a mother below clutched a shriveled infant, whispering hymns that cracked from dehydration. Gunshots echoed in the distance. Churches burned. The cries of abandoned children rose like incense to a silent heaven.
She clenched her jaw. Her curse had spread—she had whispered it from her lips after centuries of silence. Not to bring wrath. To bring balance. But now, balance was unraveling. South Africa—no, the whole world—was unraveling.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the scream of a girl.
---
In an alleyway below, a frail grandmother had been cornered by a starving boy, no older than fifteen. He held a rock in one trembling hand and a half-empty tin of dog food in the other.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, swinging wildly. The rock collided with her temple. She collapsed.
The boy sobbed as he dropped to his knees and took the tattered blanket she wore.
Phantheia landed silently beside him. Her presence stopped time. The boy looked up, eyes wide, shivering.
"Are you the angel?" he asked.
She said nothing. Only watched. Her power surged—a curse could be cast, punishment dealt, balance restored. But her hands trembled.
"I didn't want to steal," the boy whispered. "But I was hungry. I have a baby brother. We haven't eaten in four days."
Her golden eyes dimmed. The boy did not run. He didn't kneel. He simply stared into the eyes of karma.
"Then live," she whispered. And with a wave of her hand, his pain ceased. His hunger was gone. Not cured—paused.
As he turned to leave, he paused.
"Thank you," he said.
She turned away.
---
The streets grew worse. Government vehicles sped out of the city, tires screaming. The President had already fled. Ministers argued over satellite feeds while civilians clawed at embassy gates.
Hillbrow was dying.
Phantheia wandered the streets. Corpses were stacked outside hospitals. Children fought rats over scraps of meat. The rich watched through glass towers, guarded by mercenaries.
And still, churches stayed open. Pastors screamed about mercy and the second coming. Women lit candles. Men sang, though their voices cracked with thirst.
Why do they still believe? Phantheia wondered. When heaven says nothing... when I walk among them and do nothing.
A dog barked.
---
She turned a corner and saw a man—middle-aged, bloodshot eyes, trembling hands—struggling with a golden retriever. The leash was twisted. The man had a knife.
The dog barked again, confused but trusting.
"Stop," Phantheia said.
The man froze.
"Please," he said. "I need to eat. I didn't want to. But I have no choice."
"You do."
He gritted his teeth. "Do you even know what hunger does to a man?"
Phantheia didn't answer. Instead, she turned the blade in his hand to smoke.
The dog ran.
The man collapsed to his knees and sobbed. "Then curse me. Go on."
But she didn't.
---
That night, a wind swept through Johannesburg. Not natural wind—something ancient. A voice, neither male nor female, whispered across the city.
Phantheia looked up.
Above her, wings made of fractured light spread across the skyline. An angel, dressed in torn white, hovered—its face hidden behind a thousand eyes.
"You show mercy," it said. "But they do not change."
Phantheia lowered her gaze.
"Then what do I do?"
The angel's wings folded.
"You already know."
It vanished.
She knelt. Her hand touched the ground. Her curse deepened.
And across the country, the earth trembled.
---
In the days that followed, nothing grew. Food rotted. Water turned bitter. Hope thinned like air at altitude. And still, prayers rose.
And Phantheia, child of consequence, stood silent at the edge of the city and whispered:
"Why is God still silent?"