Day in the story: 30th September (Tuesday)
I woke up tired, already aching for the strength I no longer had.
The painted armor was gone—washed off the night before, rinsed down the drain like it was nothing. But I could feel its absence in my bones, in the dull heaviness of my limbs. My body, without it, felt so... normal. So irritatingly weak.
I hated it.
Of course I couldn't walk around looking like some urban cyborg twenty-four-seven. It'd raise too many questions. And painting myself up every time I needed to do something remotely physical? Completely unsustainable. It took too damn long, especially if I wanted precision.
I needed a solution. Something wearable. Fabric-based. A suit that could hold the enchantment.
Something fast. Something discreet.
Because this half-life, swinging between powerless and superhuman, was going to break me if I didn't figure it out soon.
I spent the morning tucked under my warm blanket, eating oatmeal straight from the bowl while a fashion design podcast played in my ears and online sewing tutorials looped on screen.
Not exactly superhero training, but it felt right.
If I couldn't always rely on my paints, then I'd make something better—something wearable, repeatable, mine.
I capped off my little crash course with a reckless online shopping spree: bolts of fabric, synthetic leather, a heavy-duty sewing machine, proper fabric dyes, hot glue, needles, thread—everything I could possibly need and then some.
It would all arrive tomorrow, at the earliest.
Way too damn long.
It felt like withdrawal.
The calendar reminded me: today was graphic design, animation, and history of art. Normally, I'd be excited—those were my favorites, even animation, despite it not being my strongest skill.
But today... I wanted to jump. To soar. To test what else this new body could do. Instead, I'd be stuck behind a desk, indoors, pretending to be normal.
Still—maybe I could make it useful.
What could I paint next? What tools or tricks could I design for myself?
Maybe the lessons would spark something. Inspiration, if not adrenaline.
--
I arrived late. Not too late, just enough to sneak in with my head low and avoid any unwelcome attention. The classroom was already half full when I slid into my seat. Same place as usual—last row, left side, beside the window.
Professor Langston stood at the front of the class, tall and rail-thin, the kind of guy who wore black turtlenecks unironically and actually looked good in them. His hair was going gray in streaks that I imagined were more from stress than age, and his hands danced in the air as he spoke.
"Design isn't just aesthetics, people. It's communication. Purposeful, directional, and above all—intentional. That's what separates a designer from a hobbyist."
I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I absently traced shapes in my sketchbook. His words were always sharp, as if every syllable had a shape of its own. I liked that. It made it easier to follow.
Next to me, a girl - Marian leaned closer. "Bet he has a font for every mood," she whispered.
"Bet he dreams in vector lines," I muttered back.
She giggled, but Langston turned his sharp gaze our way. "Alexa. Marian. Something you'd like to share with the rest of us?"
"No, sir," I said quickly, eyes down.
"Then share your focus. We're about to talk about elemental forces in design. And not water, fire, and wind like some fantasy novel. I mean visual forces. Direction, weight, contrast, balance. These are your true elements."
My fingers froze.
Elemental forces.
My mind clicked into place, shifting from the professor to something deeper—something internal. His words had stirred something in me. I had used elemental force before, hadn't I? The very first time, with my jacket. With creation itself. What he said wasn't just a metaphor to me. It was literal.
Langston continued. He brought up a series of images on the screen behind him—classic posters, logos, layouts. He broke them down ruthlessly.
"See this one? What's the primary visual weight? Where's your eye drawn?"
Hands went up. Someone said, "The bold text in the center."
Langston nodded. "Why?"
"Contrast, sir. It's black on a white background. High saturation."
"Good. And this one?"
It was a photo-heavy ad with sweeping curves and soft gradients.
"The curve acts like a path for the eye. It directs motion," I said before realizing I had.
Langston's gaze snapped to me, surprised but pleased. "Exactly. Motion. Direction. Visual force in play. You're starting to see it."
I nodded, distracted now by the thrum in my fingertips. Visual force… But what about actual force? What if I painted not just imagery, but intent—direction itself? What if I painted motion?
Air.
Wind.
Perhaps a painted fan—one that stirred the air not with moving blades, but through intention and design alone. It was dumb. Or genius. I didn't know yet.
Langston moved on to discussing balance, asymmetry, radial layouts. I took notes, but my mind was elsewhere. Shapes formed in my sketchbook—spirals, propellers, concentric rings that spun even though they were still. I kept drawing, lines flowing from me like they were being pulled.
Class wrapped up with Langston's usual dry tone. "Next week, we move on to typography as energy. Bring your sketchbooks. Bring your eyes. And maybe bring your brains, if that's not too much to ask."
We laughed, as we always did. But I couldn't shake the electric buzz in my chest.
I knew what I would try next.
I'd paint wind.
I'd paint motion.
I'd paint force.
--
The rest of the classes passed in a blur, like seconds slipping between my fingers. The themes were genuinely interesting—especially history of art—but my mind kept drifting, caught between what I'd just learned and all the wild ideas brewing from earlier. New things I could try. Old ones I hadn't pushed far enough.
The moment we were dismissed, I grabbed Peter and dragged him straight to the park. There were so many quiet nooks around there, places wrapped in roots and old shadows, that we easily found a secluded spot between a ring of twisted trees. No one would bother us.
I dropped to the ground and started pulling sketch after sketch from my bag. Every spare minute between lessons today, I'd been drawing—page after page of strange symbols, wires, flames, conceptual shapes half-remembered from dreams.
"Damn, Lex," Peter whistled, eyes wide. "That's a lot. What are you gonna do first?"
I handed him most of the stack. "Dunno. You choose."
He flipped through the pages slowly, his fingers tracing the colored lines. Finally, he stopped at one that showed a chaotic tangle of wires, two of them exposed and sparking with jagged arcs of painted electricity.
"Let's go with this one," he said.
I nodded, taking it gently and placing it on a wide, flat stone nearby. We weighed the corners down with smaller rocks so the wind wouldn't get any clever ideas. I crouched beside it and touched one of the painted wires—a protected one.
"Be the wires. Conduct electricity," I said aloud. I didn't need to speak it, not really. But Peter needed to see it happen. Needed to hear it. A shimmer danced from my fingertips, silver and sharp like lightning in fog, sliding down to the sketch.
Then I sat back and waited.
Peter tilted his head. "Is it… supposed to do anything?"
I felt my chest deflate slightly. Of course it was. I was sure of it. I felt it. "I'm pretty sure it's working the way I asked. I can feel it in… my soul."
"Your soul?" he echoed, skeptical but amused.
"Yeah. It's hard to explain. When I do magic—when I infuse things—I just… know they're working. Like your necklace? I can feel it's still connected to my Domain, through me."
"You can feel where it is?"
"Sort of. I get a vague sense of direction, but not the exact location. Unless you're close, like now. When you're far, I just know if it's active."
"That's pretty cool, actually," he said, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful.
I hadn't considered that angle before. Maybe that sense could become something more—trackable, usable. Something to explore later.
"So, what about this electric thing?" Peter asked. "How do we know if it's doing anything?"
"Well, I'm not touching it—and neither are you." I leaned in, listening. There was a low hum, barely audible—a faint buzz, like power lines in the rain. And the air had that sharp ozone smell that prickled my nose.
Then the sketch snapped—a crack of light—and the whole thing burst into flame.
"Shit!" I yelped, jumping back.
The connection in my chest severed cleanly. The magic was gone, burned out, the authority I poured into it released like steam from a pipe.
"I guess it worked after all," Peter said, watching the ashes scatter. "Must've sparked just enough to catch the page."
"Guess so," I said, a grin tugging at my lips despite the surprise.
Peter rummaged through the stack. "Okay, what about the actual fire one?"
I took it from him—a stylized flame I'd painted in sharp reds, oranges, and a blue base, curling like it wanted to leap from the page. I placed it on the same stone, now cool and clean again.
"Be the fire," I whispered, letting my fingers trail along the lines of the image.
"Whoa!" Peter gasped. "Lex, I saw something—your skin shimmered, like rainbow static. And your eyes… they flickered for a second. Like the colors shifted."
Wait. They did that?
"That's… cool. I wonder why you saw it this time."
"Dunno. Maybe the magic's getting stronger? Or maybe you're just getting better at channeling it."
More likely, he was simply getting better at noticing it.
The paper flared into flames almost instantly—it danced across the surface.
Peter blinked, impressed. "Maybe it's the material. Like, if you draw something fire-related on flammable stuff, it turns the medium into the effect?"
"Could be. Let's try something less flammable."
I grabbed a spray can, shook it with a satisfying rattle, and painted a stylized fire directly onto the stone's surface.
As I sprayed the last streak, I whispered again: "Be the fire."
The energy moved this time while I painted—I felt the transfer happen. The spark passed through my hand, down the paint trail, and into the rock. It shimmered.
"Lex!" Peter said, eyes wide. "The light—it moved! Like your hand lit it up. And now…"
He stepped forward, cautious. "It's warm."
Peter knelt down and plucked some grass. Carefully, he reached forward and placed it on the painted flame.
Soon, the blades of grass Peter had placed on the stone began to smolder—first curling at the edges, then blackening, and finally catching fire in a quiet whoosh. The flames danced low, licking the painted stone without spreading. It wasn't wild or chaotic, but controlled—like the fire knew its place.
I stepped closer, heart beating a little faster with each crunch of gravel under my boots. The warmth radiated gently from the rock now.
I crouched next to the painted flame and reached out, laying my hand softly near the warm surface.
Then, with a long breath, I released my authority.
"So it seems like your magic's making the things you paint obey real-life physics," Peter said, crouching beside. "Like… the effect radiates out of the drawing, but the actual painting stays still, unmoving?"
"I guess," I replied with a shrug, brushing a few strands of hair out of my face. "I don't get all of it yet. I know the thing itself doesn't detach—it stays bound to whatever I painted it on. But the effect itself? It moves. Like when I jumped off that spring I painted—my body reacted like it was real."
Peter nodded, thinking. "Your fire and electricity sketches both caused fires when they hit flammable stuff. But if you painted an electric current on a metal rod or something conductive? I bet the whole thing would spark like mad."
"That's actually a really good idea. I'll try it later," I said, giving him a quick grin. "
"Now—water?"
He handed me a drawing I'd done earlier, a serene image of still water reflecting the sky. I stared at it, focused on the memory of stillness, coolness, surface tension—and thought, Be the water.
There was a faint shimmer across my skin.
"Did you see it? The glow?"
"Yeah," he said, "but I didn't hear you say anything."
"I didn't have to. It's not really a spell—just a command. Thought, intent, will. I only say them out loud so you don't miss the magic."
Peter leaned in. "So? Is it working? Turn it around!"
I flipped the page upside down.
Nothing dripped. The painted water clung stubbornly to the surface like any normal ink would.
"What a bummer," Peter muttered.
"Told you," I said, inspecting it more closely. "The thing itself can't leave the medium. The painting can become something, but it can't spread."
Then I noticed something. "Wait…"
The edges of the painted area had darkened and warped slightly. The paper tore along the border.
"It got wet!" I said, eyes widening. "The paint soaked through the page—that's why it tore."
Peter crouched beside me again and pressed his fingertips to the page. When he pulled them back, they glistened. "It's wet. And cold. Really cold."
I grinned and pulled the authority back. The water stopped instantly.
"Okay," I said, still giddy from the success, "give me the fan."
Peter rummaged through the sketch stack and pulled out the one I'd drawn during lunch—an abstract fan, all stylized curves and lines to suggest motion. I took it and nailed it into the trunk of a nearby tree with the small pocket knife I always carried.
I laid my hand against the page, closed my eyes, and whispered into the world, Be the fan. Push the air away.
The change was instant, subtle at first. A gentle breeze kissed my face. Strands of my hair lifted and fluttered. The fan didn't move—of course it didn't—but it didn't need to. It believed it was working. The air around it responded.
Peter blinked as the wind brushed against him. "Whoa. Lex… this one's the coolest so far."
"I know, right?"
"It's the first one that really acts beyond itself. Like it has range. Reach. But why does the air get to move away, and the water doesn't?"
I thought about it. "I don't think the air leaves the painting. I think it moves what's already nearby. Like… it tells the air next to it what to do."
Peter's eyes lit up with understanding. "Oh, right! Like, the fan doesn't produce air—it just pushes what's already there. But with water or fire, you'd have to create a substance, not just move one."
"Exactly," I nodded. "It's a difference between manipulation and manifestation."
He looked like he was about to say something else, but his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. "Hang on. Lucky7 is calling."
Zoe. I smiled to myself as he answered and wandered a few steps away, already teasing her over something.
While he talked, I pulled the pocket knife from the tree, removed the fan sketch, and rolled it back into my bag. I felt a growing sense of understanding—not complete, but clearer now. My magic wasn't just about making things. It was about boundaries, rules, and interpretation. Every object I painted became a kind of model of the real thing. Not the thing itself—but something that believed it was real hard enough to act like it.
I had other sketches still tucked away: a set of magnets, a painting of an icy surface, a glue and a conveyor belt.
And I already knew how most of them would work.
But there was something else I learned today—something subtle but important. When the sketch with the fire burned up earlier, I felt it. Like a tether snapped. The magical thread that tied me to it had broken, and I'd known exactly when and where it happened. Probably only because I was close—but still, that was something.
"So, Zoe's actually close by," Peter said as he glanced at his phone again. "She wants to meet. Do you mind if we call it a day?"
"Honestly? Not at all," I replied, brushing some grass off my jeans. "I think I've got a pretty solid grasp on how all this works now. The framework makes sense. Go meet your girl, Pete."
He smiled. "Come with us. We're just going for a walk and a chat. We can drop you off at a bus stop later?"
I hesitated for a second, then shrugged. "Sure, why not?"
Peter helped me pack up the rest of my drawings and supplies, sliding them carefully back into my bag. We left the old tree behind and wandered toward the more well-trodden paths of the park. It was sunny, but the kind of late-autumn sun that looks warm and feels like a lie. The breeze had bite. People were out, bundled up in thicker jackets, scarves beginning to appear, boots crunching on dry leaves.
I tugged my own coat a little tighter around myself. The summer days were officially slipping away, leaving behind long shadows and a faint chill in the air that crept up sleeves and down necklines.
What a bummer.
Still, it sparked an idea—like everything lately seemed to.
What if I painted warmth onto a long-sleeved shirt? Not just a sun motif or some glowing colors, but an actual enchantment of heat—enough to keep me warm without all these annoying layers. It wouldn't even need to burn, just radiate. Cozy warmth, like sitting next to a space heater or being wrapped in a fresh-from-the-dryer blanket.
I grinned to myself. Soon, I thought, I'll be the most practical mage in the city.
Not just flash and spectacle—fireballs and wing fans. No. I'd be out here painting wearable tech, heating pads, self-fanning cloaks, shock-absorbing boots… I'd be magic's answer to a DIY lifestyle influencer.
We emerged near the park's main clearing—a broad field of soft grass that sloped gently toward a small pond at its center. The water was still, like glass tinted by the overcast sky, and narrow paths looped around it in gentle curves. Wooden bridges crossed shallow inlets, and here and there, old gazebos stood like forgotten stage sets, weathered but elegant.
Zoe was waiting in one of those gazebos, perched like a statue in a fashion editorial. The second she stepped out to greet us, it felt like the whole park dimmed around her. She looked like a goddess given flesh.
Tight brown pants—leather, I think—clung to her legs like a second skin. Her boots were high-heeled, knee-high, and laced with a confidence I wished I could borrow for just five minutes. A long coat, the kind that swept past her hips with fluffy trim even a sheep would be jealous of, flared slightly as she moved. A red scarf coiled down from her neck like a silk ribbon caught mid-flight, and a matching hat crowned her golden blonde hair perfectly.
I momentarily wished I had even a fraction of her fashion sense.
Peter moved toward her with a grin, and they collided in a hug and kiss that made the autumn air feel warmer just by existing.
"Damn girl," I said, not bothering to hide the admiration. "You look fabulous."
Zoe turned to me, eyes sparkling. "Hello, Alexa. It's nice to hear that from someone who can actually spot beauty."
"Is that remark aimed at me?" Peter raised an eyebrow, playing along with just the right amount of mock injury.
Zoe placed her hands on her hips, lips curling into a smirk. "What do you think?"
Touché.
She turned back to me. "What were you two up to?"
Oh no. Danger. Must deflect before Peter gets too honest.
Before I could think of a passable lie, Peter stepped in like a damn gentleman.
"I was mostly watching Lex do her artistic thing," he said casually, "while providing necessary commentary on what could be improved."
I blinked. Damn, Peter. That was smoother than I gave him credit for.
Zoe smiled at that, clearly pleased. "So, you do know beauty after all, Pete?"
"I restricted myself to the technical stuff," he said, with the air of someone who was walking a diplomatic tightrope. "I don't really know when art is beautiful or not. But I do know you're quite pretty, Zoe."
Ah. Tactical error. He didn't even notice.
Zoe blinked. Then tilted her head slightly. "Quite… pretty?"
She let the pause hang like a knife dangling by a thread.
Peter's face did that panic-but-cover-it-up thing he always does. "Come on. You know what I meant." He took her hands. "I also know that your worth is way more than how you look."
Okay. Respect.
"That's a good save," I muttered, just loud enough for them to hear.
Zoe smiled and kissed him on the cheek, satisfied. "You're lucky you're cute."
He smirked. "I know."
We walked the path skirting the pond, the sun beginning its slow dip into the late afternoon haze. This path, quiet and curved along the water's edge, also happened to lead toward the park's exit—toward the bus stop.
Peter and Zoe walked slightly ahead, hand in hand, their shoulders brushing. They looked like the kind of couple you'd see in an indie movie: awkward and funny and real. I didn't hope they'd stay together forever, not really. Forever's a long time. But I did hope they'd get to hold onto days like this—moments of light strong enough to weather whatever storms found them.
Then it happened.
A strange pull—subtle at first—gripped the air around me. About twenty feet away, space itself seemed to fold inward. It cracked open, not loudly, but with the eerie quiet of an egg breaking underwater. A familiar sight emerged: a small orb, floating in the air like a marble suspended mid-fall. Then, like breathing, it expanded—stretching and swelling until it formed a seven-foot-wide sphere, ringed by glowing golden fractures. The cracks shimmered, sucking in the afternoon light like a reverse halo.
A child, maybe four or five, broke free from their parents and sprinted toward the sphere.
"No! Stop!" I shouted, instinct kicking in. My voice startled a flock of birds but not the child. Before I could even take a step, the kid ran straight into the portal.
Peter looked at me, confusion etched across his face—but then the child emerged on the other side, completely unharmed. Their father ran after them, scooping them up and walking them back to the mother. The family now stood inside the shimmering sphere as if it were just another patch of air.
Peter turned toward me. "What the hell is going on?"
I didn't answer him. Not directly. My gaze flicked to Zoe.
"You can see it, can't you?" I asked her.
She met my eyes, the smile gone from her face, replaced by something quiet and serious. She looked at Peter, who was glancing between us like he'd just realized the script had flipped and no one told him.
"See what?" he asked, eyes narrowing.
"There's a portal right there," I said, pointing. "Right where that family is standing. I don't know where it leads, but I've seen one like it before. And this one... it doesn't seem to be sucking anything in."
Peter's expression shifted. The word portal seemed to flip some internal switch.
"A magical portal?" he asked.
"Yes," I said simply. "And I'm pretty sure Zoe can see it too. Am I right?"
Zoe nodded, her voice soft. "Yes. I can see it."
Peter blinked like he'd just been slapped. "What?! You're a mage too?"
"No," she said, turning to him. "I'm not like your sister."
"Then... what are you?" he asked, voice dropping.
"I'm a Seer."
That hit different.
"A Seer?" I repeated, unsure. Like Ms. Honey.
Zoe nodded. "I can see into the Ideworld. I see magic, Alexa. I don't cast it."
"Ideworld…That's the other place? The twisted version of our world?"
"Yes," she said. "Your Domain is there. The crystal you found? That's your Soulcore. It gave you your authority."
I stared at her. "How do you know all of this?"
"It's in my blood," she replied. "My mother is a Seer. So was my grandmother. It runs down the women's line in our family. We don't do magic, not like you apparently. But we understand it. We see its structures. Its truths."
Peter was still processing, rubbing the back of his neck. "So... no spells?"
"No spells," Zoe confirmed. "But I can see the light of authority when someone uses their will. And I don't forget magic the way most people do. Reality doesn't rewrite my memory, because I'm awake."
"Awake?" I asked.
She nodded. "People become awake through exposure—gradually, sometimes suddenly. The more you encounter the supernatural, the less the world can lie to you about it."
"That explains a lot." Peter muttered.
"I've only had my powers for a few days. Got pulled into some kind of test, got the crystal, then got dumped back here. I've seen a portal like that before—it led to the Ideworld, and I walked through it. Everything was twisted, like reflections in broken glass."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Peter asked, stunned.
"Because I didn't know if it was real, or just some kind of dream. I wasn't even sure I should talk about it."
Zoe gestured to a nearby bench. "Come. Sit. I'll tell you what I can."
We sat—three kids on a bench, a reality-bending rift glowing just a few meters away like a sun born sideways.
"I can enter the Ideworld," Zoe explained, folding her hands in her lap. "Spiritually, when I sleep. Not physically. But if a portal like this opens, yes—I could walk through. And so could Peter, if he were holding my hand. Or yours."
"Anyone awake can pass through," she added. "And anything they carry or touch."
"But you don't go in?" I asked.
"Not anymore. It's dangerous. Twisted shadows of things live there—people, animals, even emotions given form. They're distorted and, more often than not, violent. I stopped traveling there years ago."
"I get it," I said. "I mean, I don't need to go in anyway."
"That's not entirely true," Zoe said, voice quiet again.
Peter frowned. "What do you mean?"
"My grandmother told me—mages go there to seek Soulmarks. To grow stronger."
Soulmarks. The word landed in me like a memory half-remembered.
"I think I have one already," I said. "When I touched my crystal—my Domain's core—I saw something. A mark. Identity. I could feel it for what it was."
Zoe nodded. "That's what they are. When a mage finds one, they can imprint its essence onto their Soulcore. It changes how their authority behaves—what it can become."
I exhaled. "That explains it. My power... it's about perception. I paint something, ask it to be that thing, and it acts like it. Fire that burns, electricity that sparks, wind that blows."
Peter was staring at the portal now, his hand in Zoe's. "So those soulmarks... they're just lying around in there?"
"They can be anything," Zoe said. "A place, an object, even a monster."
"How long do portals like this stay open?" I asked, gesturing to the glowing orb still hovering like a second sun.
"Usually about a day," she said. "Roughly twenty-four hours."
"Can things come through from the other side?"
"Yes," Zoe said. "Once they reach their own kind of awakening."
"And if your spirit's in there... can you be hurt?"
"Not by most things. But some, yes. There are predators that hunt spirits. Shadows that eat memories and identities."
I leaned back on the bench, letting it all settle in my chest like a second heartbeat. "This is so not the conversation I thought we'd be having today."
Zoe smiled faintly. "Me neither. I only know the basics. My mother knows more. My grandma was a master Seer. If you have questions, I could ask her for you."
"One last thing," I said. "Is there a hidden society of 'awakened' people in the city? Like a secret club or something?"
Zoe actually laughed. "Yeah, there are tons of groups. Not just here—everywhere. Some are organized, some are cults, some are just... clubs. But we don't keep in touch with any of them."
"Why not?" Peter asked.
"Because once you know too much," she said softly, "you become visible to things you might not want to see you."
"Do you know why I became a mage?" I asked. "There are plenty of people interested in art, but not all of them can shape it like I do."
Zoe shook her head slightly. "I don't know the details. Maybe it takes a certain kind of predisposition to manifest a Domain. What I do know is that to gain one, it's not enough to just be interested in the subject—you have to be compatible with it. Your personality, your mindset. You said your Domain is art?"
"Domain of Artistic Creation," I confirmed.
"Then it makes sense. You're not just someone who likes art—you're someone who sees the world through it. Interprets it that way. You're creative, expressive. That shapes your Domain—and your Domain shapes you right back. It's a cycle. A push and pull. Some people probably go through the same awakening you did, but they either reject it or fail whatever test they're given. Then Reality just... wipes it all away. It likes to keep things neat."
I nodded, feeling the quiet weight of that idea. "I see. I just hope I didn't mess up your relationship with all this."
"Not on my side," Zoe said, though her voice was careful. "I still want to be with Peter—if he'll have me."
"Of course I will," Peter said, clearly surprised. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because I kept this part of myself—my family, our connection to magic—from you. That's... a big thing to hide."
"I don't mind," he replied. "I didn't tell you about Lex either."
"That's different," she said. "You were just protecting someone else's story. I was hiding my own."
Peter shrugged. "Either way, I guess I'm the only one here who's not awake."
"A sleeper," Zoe said softly.
"A sleeper, then," he echoed, a little defeated. "Kinda sucks."
"Trust me, Pete," she said, eyes drifting back toward the glowing sphere in the distance. "Sometimes I think I'd rather be a sleeper too."
That other world hadn't felt scary, not exactly. Not when I'd been there. It had felt... strange, sure, but also beautiful. Like a place that was telling the truth more clearly than this one ever could.
"You know what?" I said. "I'm gonna leave you two now. Let you talk about something normal for a change."
"You don't have to go, Lex," Zoe said, her voice a little hesitant. "I was glad to share what little I know."
"You shared way more than I've managed to learn so far," I said. "I mean it—I'm grateful. But I also don't want to be the center of attention right now. You get me?"
She nodded. "Yeah. I get you. Thank you."
"Okay then." I stood up. "I'll go. You two have your moment."
She hugged me, and Peter followed, wrapping his arms around us both. We stood there, just the three of us, the golden cracks in the world glowing quietly in the background.
Then I pushed them gently away. "Don't make me cry. Be wild, kids."
I turned and started walking down the path alone, the breeze pulling at my jacket and the air full of something old, and bright, and just a little bit broken.
As I walked back toward the bus stop, my phone rang. Mr. Penrose.
"Hello, Mr. Penrose," I answered.
"Alexandra," he said in his usual crisp voice. "I'm calling to inform you that I've met with Thomas. He's fine now."
"That's good news. Thank you, sir."
"Good day."
"Good day, sir."
I hung up and slipped the phone into my jacket pocket. That was good news.
It had been a while since I'd had a proper thieving job. Maybe with Thomas back, Penrose could finally turn his attention to dealing with de Marco. And that meant I might actually get to do something soon. Something meaningful.
It would be so much easier now that I had superpowers.