A searing jolt of pain explodes across Obinai's cheekbone—

SMACK!

His eyes fly open just in time to see a neon green rubber ball ricochet off his face and tumble to the floor with a mocking boing-boing-boing. Morning light stabs through the blinds like laser beams, turning his bedroom into a hazy warzone of half-seen shapes.

"The hell—?" His voice sounds like he's been gargling gravel.

As he tries to sit up, his body protests. Every joint feels stiff, his limbs heavy from the odd angle he'd slept in. With a muffled grunt, he shifts, but his balance gives out, and he topples sideways off the bed, landing with a dull thud on the cold hardwood floor.

For a moment, he just lies there, his cheek pressed against the floorboards. He closes his eyes again, groaning softly.

"Pfffft—HA!"

That unmistakable, demonic cackle that haunts his nightmares.

Mya.

Obinai turns his head just enough to see his little sister doubled over in the doorway, her entire nine-year-old frame shaking with unholy glee. Her pink shirt clashes violently with her lime-green pants, making her look like some kind of deranged Easter candy.

"Y-your face!" she wheezes, clutching her stomach. "Like a—snort—like a squished frog!"

Obinai glares. "I will end you."

Mya wipes imaginary tears, gasping for air. "You were sleeping for too long!" She hops from foot to foot, her curls bouncing. "So I helped you wake up!"

The ball taunts him from the floor. Obinai makes a half-hearted swipe at it. Misses.

He groans again, sitting up slowly and rubbing the sore spot on his cheek. Despite himself, the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a tired smile. "Yeah, yeah," he mutters, shaking his head. "Laugh it up, kid. This what you do for fun now? Assault your big brother before breakfast?"

Mya skips over and picks up the rubber ball triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear. "It worked, didn't it? You're up, aren't you?"

"Barely," Obinai grumbles, pushing himself to his feet. He stretches, wincing as his back cracks. "What's the big idea, huh? Why'd you throw that thing at me?"

Mya skips away, holding the ball behind her back as if to hide her weapon. "Mom said it's your turn to take me to school today," she declares, her voice full of mock authority. "And she said you have to get ready right now."

Obinai raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Oh, did she?"

"Yup!" Mya nods vigorously. "She said you better not be late again, or Mrs. Henderson's gonna give you that look. You know the one." She screws her face into an exaggerated frown, imitating her infamous teacher's disapproving glare.

Obinai chuckles despite himself, shaking his head. "Mrs. Henderson can wait. I need, like, five more minutes to recover from the vicious attack I just suffered." He gestures dramatically to his cheek. "This might be permanent, you know. I should sue."

Mya rolls her eyes, but her grin only widens. "Oh, please. If you're suing anyone, you're suing yourself for sleeping in! Now hurry up, Obi! Mom's gonna kill you if you make me late again."

"Alright, alright, bossy," Obinai says, ruffling her hair as he walks past her toward the bathroom. "Keep your ponytail on. I'll be ready in five."

Mya follows him, bouncing the rubber ball on the floor as she goes. "Better make it three, Obi!" she calls after him, her voice teasing.

Obinai smirks, shaking his head as he grabs a towel from the back of a chair. "You're relentless, you know that?" he says, tossing it onto his desk.

Mya giggles, hopping onto his bed with a bounce, her legs crossing beneath her as she watches him with an amused grin. "You better hurry, Obi," she teases, tilting her head dramatically. "And you smell like the park. Ugh." She wrinkles her nose for emphasis.

Obinai freezes mid-step, a flash of the previous night rushing back to him. He snorts softly, trying to mask his nerves as he grabs a clean shirt and a pair of jeans from the pile of clothes on the floor. "Park smell is the new cool, you know?" he shoots back, tugging the shirt over his head.

Mya raises an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Sure, Obi. Whatever helps you sleep at night," she quips, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated fashion that makes him laugh despite himself.

He finishes dressing quickly, pulling on a somewhat wrinkled gray t-shirt and faded blue jeans. The shirt hangs a little awkwardly, but there's no time to care. He steps over to the small mirror hanging on the back of his door, inspecting the state of his locs. After wiping his face with the towel he notices that they're a bit tangled and frizzy, and his attempts to smooth them down only result in them looking slightly less chaotic.

Mya watches him from the bed, chin resting in her hands. "You trying to impress Mrs. Henderson or something?" she teases.

Obinai throws her a playful glare through the mirror. "Yeah, right. Like I'd waste effort on someone who confiscates snacks like it's her life's mission."

Mya bursts into laughter, her dimples deepening. "You still mad about the granola bar?"

"Granola bars are sacred," he retorts, grabbing his backpack from the corner of the room and slinging it over one shoulder. He glances back at the mirror, gives his reflection a resigned shrug, and turns toward the door. "Alright, come on. Let's grab some breakfast before we head out."

Mya hops off the bed with a bounce, following him into the hallway. "You think there's pancakes left?" she asks, her tone hopeful.

"I'm betting it's cereal today," Obinai replies, glancing toward the kitchen as they reach it. Sure enough, a box of cereal sits open on the counter, next to two bowls and a carton of milk Maria must have left out in a rush.

Mya groans dramatically. "Cereal's so boring, though!"

"Cereal gets the job done," Obinai counters, grabbing the box and pouring some into a bowl. "Plus, you're lucky I didn't let you starve after that wake-up stunt." He smirks, passing her the milk.

Mya sticks out her tongue as she pours milk into her bowl. "You're just mad because I got you good."

"Uh-huh. Keep talking, little sis," he replies, sitting down at the small kitchen table. "One of these days, I'll get my revenge. And when I do, you're not gonna see it coming."

"You wish," Mya says with a grin, plopping into the chair across from Obinai, her legs swinging beneath the table.

Obinai stirs his cereal lazily. He watches Mya, who's completely engrossed in balancing the perfect ratio of cereal to milk on her spoon, and a small smile tugs at his lips.

He smirks. "So...anything cool happening at school?"

Big mistake.

CLANG.

Her eyes light up like someone plugged her into a power socket. "OHMYGOSH OBIIII!" She bounces in her seat, sending milk sloshing over the rim. "We're doing NEUTRINO SIMULATIONS!"

Obinai's spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. "The hell's a—"

"Neutrinos!" Mya continues, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "They're these tiny, tiny particles that barely ever interact with matter, but they can tell us all these huge things about how stars work!" She gestures wildly with her spoon, nearly flinging milk onto the table.

Obinai leans back slightly, trying not to laugh. "Right… tiny particles and big things. Got it."

"And that's not all!" Mya barrels on. "There's this project on Andromeda, too! We're hypothesizing about its intergalactic dynamics based on redshift phenomena and spectral analysis data, and—"

"Whoa, whoa, time out." Obinai makes a T with his hands. "You lost me at 'redshift.'"

Mya groans, flopping back in her chair with enough force to make it squeak. "Ugh, it's not hard! When light stretches out—"

The sound of shuffling papers and muffled muttering comes from the doorway. Their father, Amos, steps into the kitchen, his tall frame slightly stooped under the weight of an armful of rolled-up papers precariously balanced in his arms. His lab coat is rumpled, and the bags under his eyes speak to another sleepless night at the lab.

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"Morning, progeny," Amos greets, his voice warm but heavy with fatigue. He maneuvers toward the table, but the stack in his arms wobbles dangerously.

"Uh, Dad—" Obinai starts, but it's too late. The stack spills onto the table with a loud thud, scattering papers across their breakfast bowls. Mya squeals as a roll of charts lands directly in her cereal, splashing milk onto the table.

"Oops," Amos mutters, scratching his bald head sheepishly. "Didn't think that through."

"Dad!" Mya exclaims. "My cereal!"

"Sorry, lemon," Amos chuckles, though his smile doesn't quite reach his tired eyes. He peels a damp paper off the table with a wet schlop sound. "Story of my life—too many variables, not enough hands."

Obinai's jaw tightens. Always the same excuse. Always the same 'whoops' and shrugs. His fingers drum against the table. "What even is all this?" he asks, flicking a stray Cheerio off a spectral analysis chart.

Amos' posture straightens slightly, that familiar spark lighting up his exhausted features. "Nurikabe data," he says, carefully unrolling a less-damaged chart across the milk-splattered table. The paper crinkles as he smooths it down, his fingers tracing jagged lines of energy readings. "We're mapping its reaction to pulse waves. There's something... off about the absorption patterns."

Mya scrambles onto her knees on the chair, cereal disaster forgotten. "Like the harmonic resonance tests you showed me?" she asks, eyes wide.

Amos blinks, surprised. "You remembered that?"

"Duh!" Mya rolls her eyes. "The 47.3 terahertz pulses caused standing waves in the—"

"Okay, nerds," Obinai interrupts, waving a hand between them. "Some of us speak human." He squints at the graph. "So... squiggly lines mean bad?"

Amos chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. He taps the soggy chart with a coffee-stained finger. "That's the energy signature we've been tracking. Nurikabe emits this consistent pattern—until we hit it with a certain pulse frequency. Then everything changes."

"Changes how?" Mya asks, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"The wall starts reacting in unpredictable ways," Amos explains, leaning forward slightly. "It's almost as if it's… alive."

Mya's nose scrunches like she's smelled something foul. "Dad. No. She stabs her spoon into her ruined cereal for emphasis. "You're describing reactive material properties, not consciousness. That's like saying a river's alive because it changes course."

Obinai watches milk swirl in his bowl, hiding a smirk. Never thought I'd see Dad get schooled by a nine-year-old.

Amos leans forward, elbows on the table. "But what if the river chooses its path?" His voice drops to a theatrical whisper. "What if it remembers?"

Mya rolls her eyes so hard her whole head moves. "Occam's razor, Dad! Adaptive resonance doesn't equal thought!"

"She's got you there," Obinai mutters into his cereal.

Amos throws up his hands. "Since when did my kitchen become a peer review panel?"

"Since you brought interdimensional physics to breakfast," Mya shoots back, kicking her feet against the chair legs.

Amos holds up his hands in surrender, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Alright, alright, I hear you. But I'm telling you, there's something about this wall that doesn't fit —"

_SCRREEEECH

Obinai's chair legs shriek against the tile as he bolts upright. "Fascinating stuff, Dad," he says, already herding Mya toward the door with one hand . His voice pitches higher than normal. "But we've got a... uh... punctuality situation!"

Mya digs her heels in, cereal bowl forgotten. "What? No we don't! Dad was just getting to the good part about—"

Obinai gently claps a hand over her shoulder, steering her. "The metaphorical train of punctuality, Mya. We've got to move." Obinai hisses through clenched teeth, shoving her jacket at her.

He yanks Mya's backpack off the hook with enough force to send a permission slip fluttering to the floor.

Mya squirms under his grip. "Obi, you're squishing me! And Mrs. Henderson doesn't even take attendance until—"

"New policy!" Obinai practically drags her toward the door. "Super strict now."

Amos watches them with a hint of disappointment, his hands resting on the stack of scattered papers. "Already? I thought I'd at least get a few more minutes of debate with my little lemon," he says cutely, his tone a bit more high pitched and quick.

"Rain check, Dad," Obinai calls over his shoulder.

Mya pouts as she snatches her school bag from Obinai , her enthusiasm for the discussion still evident. "But I wasn't done! I had so many good points to make!"

Amos chuckles, standing up to gather the milk-splattered papers into a haphazard stack. "Don't worry, lemon," he calls after them, his voice warm but with an undercurrent Obinai doesn't miss. "Plenty of time to school me later." He meets Obinai's eyes, the teasing glint in his own dimming slightly. "And Obi—"

Damn him.

Obinai freezes in the doorway, fingers tightening around the doorknob. He forces a grin, throwing up a sarcastic salute. "Always on time, Dad. You know me."

Amos' smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "That's what worries me," he murmurs as the door clicks shut.

The hallway air is thick with the building's familiar smells—old wood polish and an overpowering lavender air freshener. Mya immediately tugs at Obinai's sleeve, her small fingers insistent.

"We don't even take a train," she hisses. "That was a terrible lie."

Obinai grins, reaching out to ruffle her curls. She ducks with a shriek, swatting at his hands. "We do now, nerd." His phone buzzes again. "Clock's ticking."

Behind the door, the faint rustle of papers stops abruptly. A chair creaks.

He's listening.

Obinai grabs Mya's hand, pulling her toward the stairs before their dad can change his mind. The door stays shut.

For now.

... ...

Amos lingers at the door, his palm pressed flat against the wood as the echoes of his children's footsteps fade The kitchen clock ticks too loud in the sudden silence. He adjusts his glasses with trembling fingers, the frames smeared with fingerprints he can never seem to clean.

"What's stopping you, Amos?"

The voice isn't his own. It's smooth as honey, soothing as a lullaby, curling through his mind.

"Nothing," he murmurs, wiping his slick bald head. "I just don't... I cannot believe that it is him. It was not him then. It isn't him now."

A warmth brushes his cheek—phantom fingers, gentle yet undeniable. The scent of jasmine and ozone fills his nostrils.

"It will happen again," the voice whispers.

Amos's breath hitches. "No. I made sure of that." His fingers dig into the doorframe. The screaming. The locks. The nights spent watching Obinai sleep.

The voice laughs—a sound like wind chimes. "Do you even believe in your own actions anymore, darling? You chase equations, quantify the unquantifiable... yet this simple truth eludes you."

Amos staggers back from the door, dragging his hands down his face. The kitchen swims in his vision—milk-splattered charts, abandoned cereal bowls, the ghost of his family's laughter still hanging in the air.

"Maria's gone to substitute again," he mutters to the empty room. "Good. She would have made me take those damn pills again."

The voice hums. "She wanted to silence me. Poor thing never understood—some forces can't be medicated away." A pause. "I'm necessary, Amos."

Tears streak his cheeks. He doesn't wipe them away.

"I know," he chokes out.

The knife block gleams on the counter. Sunlight catches the largest blade's edge.

"So..." The voice curls around him, intimate as a lover's embrace. "Will you do it? To preserve all that is... and all that will be?"

Amos's reflection in the stainless steel warps as he reaches out. His son's eyes flash in his memory—that look Obinai gives him now. Not anger. Not even disappointment.

Pity.

His fingers close around the knife handle.

"Yes," Amos whispers.

The voice sighs, satisfied.

Somewhere outside, a car backfires—sharp as a gunshot.

Amos doesn't flinch.

... ...

Mya's sneakers scuff against the hallway floor as she skips to keep up with Obinai's long strides. By the time they reach the lobby, the familiar figure of Mr. Thompson, the doorman, greets them with his signature knowing smirk.

The doorman leans against his podium like it's a bar, his crisp uniform sleeves rolled to reveal faded nautical tattoos. "Well, well," he drawls. "The walking dead graces us with his presence."

Obinai groans, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Not you too."

Mya bounces on her toes, backpack jostling. "He literally groaned like this—" She pitches her voice low, mimicking Obinai perfectly: "Uuuugh five more minutes, Mooooom—"

"Traitor," Obinai mutters, flicking her ponytail.

Mr. Thompson's laugh rumbles through the lobby. "Kid's got your number, Obi." He squints at Obinai's rumpled shirt and tired eyes. "Though I reckon you look more like a hungover vampire than a zombie."

"Vampires are cooler anyway," Obinai shoots back, nudging Mya toward the revolving door.

Mya digs in her heels. "Wait! Mr. T, tell Obi that technically zombies are—"

"Nope! Moving!" Obinai bodily steers her forward, her sneakers sliding on the marble.

Mr. Thompson tips his hat, eyes crinkling. "Try not to get grounded again before lunch, yeah?"

"No promises!" Obinai calls over his shoulder as they spill onto the sidewalk.

The city slams into them like a living thing—honking cabs belching exhaust, a street musician's trumpet wailing off-key, the metallic shriek of a food cart's wheels scraping concrete. Mya dances ahead, her backpack bobbing like a buoy in the urban current.

"Obi!" She whirls, pointing at a pastry cart where golden cinnamon rolls glisten under a heat lamp. "Emergency sugar rations!"

Obinai checks his phone—Angel's last text pulses like a warning light. "We don't have time—"

Mya deploys the Nuclear Pout—bottom lip trembling, eyes wide as a princess. "But it's strategic! Brain fuel for my neutrino presentation!"

"You're evil," Obinai mutters, already digging for cash.

The vendor—a grizzled man with flour in his beard—grins at them. "Ah! The usual suspects." His knobby fingers wrap a roll in wax paper, the scent of burnt sugar and cardamom curling into the morning air.

Mya grabs it like a treasure, immediately tearing off a molten chunk. "Hothothot—mmph—worth it!" she garbles, sugar coating her lips like evidence.

Obinai steers her away as she blows on her prize. "If we miss this train because of you—"

"Then we'll strategize!" Mya says cheerfully, dodging a bike messenger. "Like Dad says—adapt or die!"

Dad. The word sticks in Obinai's throat. That haunted look in his eyes this morning...

A siren wails in the distance. Mya doesn't notice, too busy licking cinnamon off her wrist.

Obinai picks up the pace. Gotta get her to school. Then figure out what the hell me and the guys are going to do to find Jasmine.

Mya skips ahead, blissfully unaware.

How long before she stops needing me? He watches her, carefree and confident, the faint smudge of sugar on her cheek only adding to her charm. Shoot, am I even needed now?

The thought leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. She's so smart, so damn clever. Always thinking, always moving forward. And me? I'm just… here. Guiding her to crosswalks and making sure she doesn't lose her backpack. That's it. That's all I do.

He swallows hard, his grip on her shoulder tightening ever so slightly when he catches up to her. I wish I was better. Why can't I be better?

Like her.

He looks at Mya again, her bright eyes lighting up as she spots something in the distance. She turns to him, her face glowing with excitement, and for a moment, he forces a smile, nodding at whatever she's rambling about.

How long before she realizes I'm just a placeholder? he wonders. And what the hell do I do then...?

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