Chapter 2

  In the Beginning…

  It was Denver, Colorado. The very place I’ve grown up for the past twenty-one years. The same city where I bounced between foster homes, the very place where I grew up and decided I would pursue a dream of higher education. Too bad that burst into flames. But yes, this is indeed Denver, Colorado.

  At least… it mostly looked like Denver.

  Same skyline, Same highways choked to the brim with traffic. Same mess of pedestrians dodging each other on sidewalks, coffees in hand, eyes on their phones.

  Cars rolled through intersections, horns blared, buses hissed to stops as people spilled out and then squeezed back in. Restaurants were open. Shops were busy.

  It was all painfully normal.

  And yet—something felt oddly wrong. Not broken or ruined. Just… off, like a familiar song played half a beat too slow.

  “Well, it’s Denver,” I say finally, more to ground myself than anything else, as we stop at a red light.

  “Indeed,” Alaric replies easily.

  I glance over at him. He’s driving like a man with nowhere else to be—hands steady on the wheel, posture immaculate. Sitting in an oddly shaped seat that propped him up so he could see over the wheel. He uses hand controls for the gas and the brake.

  Right now, he’s taking me to this graduation ceremony. Apparently, one I am walking in. For what? I have no clue. But evidently it is a military academy? He’d only mentioned that and I am supposed to be in it.

  No why or how.

  Just that I needed to be there. I’d stopped asking questions about it after the third non-answer. Quite the recurring theme with this short stack.

  “This is the most fortified and densely populated city center this far west of the United States.” He explains as he points in a direction. My eyes follow.

  I squint out the window. Beyond the high-rises and highways, I notice the first sign that something’s different. They were painfully obvious now that I could see them.

  Concrete walls reinforced with steel and watchtowers topped them. Tucked between buildings and streets. Armed patrols posted at intersections—not police, but not quite military either, they wore different styles of uniforms, not all the same.

  Threaded through it all are crystalline growths embedded into older structures and buildings, even parts of the wall. They appeared like blue-white veins running through the face of the concrete, like an unmelted frost.

  “Right, fortified because of that uh, …the Rot, was it?” I ask. Taking stock of the sight.

  “Correct.”

  That word feels strange in my mouth. Rot. He’d explained it earlier, briefly, while we were walking to the car. Along with all manner of things that mostly felt like they went in one ear and out the other.

  He continues now, like I pulled a thread he expected me to tug.

  “An infestation which has consumed nearly everything west of Nevada. The land beyond is no longer habitable. Flora, fauna—anything organic is corrupted. Even terrain itself is unstable.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Quite. It’s very serious.”

  I don’t respond right away. I watch a pedestrian cross the street—a woman laughing at something on her phone. She looks healthy and normal.

  “So,” I say slowly, “Magic exists. But this Rot is a side effect of that… what, turns people and stuff into some sort of nightmare?”

  “To a degree, yes.” He elaborates anyway. “In regions of high magical concentration, the ambient mana begins to manifest physically. Crystallization is the most visible symptom—these crystals forming in the environment render lands infertile and that then extends to wildlife making them sterile and—from all signs and examinations—turns them feral.”

  Jesus.

  “Okay, and what happens to the people who are affected by it?”

  Alaric glances at me for a fraction of a second before returning his attention to the road.

  “People are significantly worse off.”

  I feel a pressure in my chest as he speaks, I feel I already know where this is going.

  “Prolonged exposure leads to hallucinations, loss of motor function; all followed by a short period of severe illness. Hemorrhaging. Eventually, organ failure and complete neurological collapse. Then it is complete. They join the brood and become monsters.”

  I couldn’t tell if it was just the hangover eating away at me or the sudden awareness of some super virus fueled by magic that eats people, but my head was killing me all the sudden.

  “Magic is real,” I mutter, “and it’s killing people.”

  “Well, not intentionally, but yes.” Alaric says mildly. “Life on Earth simply hasn’t adapted to it yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “Yes. It has not been around all that long. Only within the last century has magic been present on this planet. Given sufficient time, biological immunity will develop. Either artificially through immunization efforts or naturally through herd immunity. A few hundred years, and all will be well.”

  I laugh once, sharp and humorless.

  “A couple hundred years? Now how the hell do you know that?”

  He simply smiles. The light turns green. We drive forward.

  “How do you suppose humanity on our world survived all of our fabled plagues and deathly outbreaks?” He gestures vaguely out the windshield. “Adaptation is not painless, it is ugly to look at and costly, but it is also persistent. As history has taught us. Given enough time, humanity overcomes.”

  I stare out at the city again.

  “So what, I was born lucky enough to inherit immunity to all those things?” I ask.

  “No,” he replies. “You were simply fortunate enough to be born into a time where immunity is developed and given.”

  Fortunate.

  I watch a garbage truck roll past, colored a deep red with a toxic label visible. Its sides reinforced with what appeared to be large steel plating.

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “Lucky me.”

  And Denver keeps moving, alive and busy. Perhaps either pretending or simply refusing to notice that the world beyond its borders isn’t already doomed. Quite the introduction to a once familiar city.

  ~~~~

  Alaric pulls into a packed parking lot and slips the car into park. The place is loud with life—doors slamming, laughter popping in bursts, parents calling names, cadets shouting across lanes like they’re already halfway into freedom.

  Alaric checks his watch.

  His mouth tightens.

  “Indeed,” he says. “You are late.”

  And how is that my fault?

  I match his frown out of spite. Now we look like two grumpy frogs from the internet, judging the world for existing.

  “The ceremony won’t begin for another half hour,” he continues, “but you must report to your class immediately. Your cap and gown are in the boot.”

  He pops the trunk.

  I unbuckle and follow him around the back of the car, stepping aside as a family squeezes past us—someone’s aunt carrying balloons like they’re weapons.

  “Alright,” I say, watching him unzip a garment bag like he’s unveiling a body. “What exactly is this place and why am I graduating from it?”

  “It is an institution designed to identify and train youths with anomalous aptitudes,” Alaric replies, smooth as ever. “Magic sensitivity, primarily. The most promising are prepared for enlistment—either into military service or guild service.”

  He lifts out a dark blue graduation gown and hands it to me.

  I slip my arms through it. The fabric settles heavier than it looks. Familiar, too—like high school, like forced smiles, like pretending you’re ready for the next thing when you don’t even know what the next thing is.

  One word catches.

  “Guilds?” I ask. “What’s a guild?”

  Alaric pauses—just a fraction.

  “Independent organizations contracted by the government,” he says at last. “They do the work the government cannot do fast enough. They are paid well for it.”

  “So… private military contractors.”

  “Correct.”

  “Except the job is fighting the end of the world.”

  He gives me a look that almost passes for amusement. “Yes.”

  I think back to the drive in—the armed patrols, the uniforms I couldn’t place, the way the city itself looked like it had grown defensive habits.

  “And this,” I say, tugging at the gown, “this is required because…?”

  “To qualify you,” Alaric says, handing me the cap, “for the pioneer intake of the Denver Institute of Magic. You must be present when the narrative converges.”

  He shuts the trunk with a soft, final click.

  “You will need the credentials this academy provides,” he adds. “And you will benefit from being seen walking the stage, even if you personally find it absurd.”

  From flunking out of college one day…

  I stare at the cap.

  …to graduating some magical cadet academy the next.

  I put it on my head anyway, because I’ve already learned the world doesn’t care what I believe.

  The front doors open into controlled chaos.

  Cadets in dress uniforms flood the lobby, taking photos in clusters, fixing collars, hugging family members too tightly. Parents and relatives move like they’re trying not to break anything. Pride is everywhere—so is the quiet fear underneath it, like a second soundtrack only some people can hear.

  At the entrance stands a woman in uniform with a clipboard, posture immaculate and eyes sharp enough to cut glass. She spots me instantly.

  “Cadet!” she snaps. “You’re late. Name and class.”

  Before I can get a syllable out, Alaric steps in.

  “Cadet Jesse Parks,” he says crisply. “Class Thirteen. Apologies for the delay—traffic was particularly severe this afternoon.”

  The woman checks her list and scribbles something down.

  “And you are?” she asks without looking up.

  “The father,” Alaric replies without hesitation. “Alan Parks.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it hurts.

  Alan.

  Of course.

  “Mr. Parks,” the woman says, finally glancing up, “you may find seating in the auditorium. Cadet, proceed to your class. You’ll be walking shortly.”

  She motions us apart like she’s dividing traffic.

  Alaric gives my arm a brief pat—reassuring, almost human.

  “Stay calm,” he murmurs. “They know you.”

  Then he slips into the auditorium and leaves me standing there with my heart doing dumb things.

  Great.

  I don’t remember anyone here. I don’t remember four years of a life I never lived. I don’t know what kind of person I’m supposed to be.

  Was I popular, quiet, or was I the asshole?

  Please, God, don’t let me be the asshole.

  “Aye, Jesse~! Running late?”

  Something slams into my back hard enough to knock the breath out of me. I stumble forward with a wheeze, catching myself on the wall.

  “Christ—”

  “Whoops, sorry!” a voice laughs—feminine, rough-edged, confident. “Forgot how fragile you are.”

  I turn.

  She’s tall and solid. Easily a few inches over me. Built like someone who never skipped leg day. Black hair pulled into a low bun, sharp green eyes, warm brown skin. Her gown hangs open, exposing a blazer, blouse, and skirt like she’s dressed for a meeting and the graduation is an inconvenience.

  And—yeah.

  She’s pretty.

  “Ah—yeah,” I manage, coughing. “Just… caught me off guard.”

  She grins. “I usually do.”

  Then she reaches up and flips my tassel—fixing it before I can even think about it.

  “We ain’t graduated yet.”

  I freeze.

  Does she… know me?

  Or does she know the version of me that existed here before I woke up in that apartment and inherited his life like a jacket I didn’t ask for.

  She pats my shoulder like I’m a dog that’s wandered into traffic, then pauses.

  Her brows knit.

  “Wait…”

  She leans in.

  Sniffs once.

  Then again, deeper.

  My brain short-circuits because suddenly her perfume is the only thing in existence and I hate that I noticed.

  “You been drinking, bud?” she asks, and I watch a coy smile start to form like she’s already decided this is funny.

  I try to pull off an expression that isn’t guilt in a graduation cap.

  “I had a… late night,” I admit. “That’s all.”

  She laughs and smacks my shoulder—hard.

  “Bitch! Where was my invite?!” She snaps, loud enough to earn a glance from a passing cadet. “What kinda loser drinks alone?”

  Ouch.

  “God. I woulda been there too,” she says, already moving. “Ugh—you reek. Did you even shower?”

  “Ran out of time.”

  Not entirely a lie.

  I hurry to keep up with her long stride as we move down the hall. She pushes open the door marked CLASS 13.

  Every head turns.

  Fantastic.

  She doesn’t hesitate, so neither do I. We head straight for the back where two empty desks sit like they were waiting. I drop into one, heart pounding, trying not to look like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.

  A bell rings.

  Announcements crackle overhead. One by one, classes are called to line up.

  Class One.

  Class Two.

  Class Three.

  Time stretches.

  Then—

  “Class Thirteen,” the voice announces.

  The girl beside me flashes a grin. “Our time to shine, Jess.”

  Jess.

  Nickname. That’s… a thing.

  I stand with everyone else, tugging my gown into place, trying to mirror what they do. And that’s when I notice it:

  Nobody looks excited.

  No nervous laughter. No bright eyes. No relief.

  Just… solemn faces. Tight expressions.

  Like they’re not walking into celebration.

  Like they’re walking into a contract.

  And then it hits me—what Alaric said.

  Pipeline. Service. Deployment.

  This isn’t “graduation” like back home. It’s a checkpoint before the real thing begins.

  Whatever this place is, and whatever this whole war is supposed to be.

  I think they expect us to finish it.

  Class Thirteen files out.

  The last class.

  The final group.

  And the hallway seems to hold its breath as we go.

  ~~~~

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The auditorium is full.

  That, in itself, is an achievement.

  Alaric sits left of center, hands folded neatly in his lap, posture perfect, expression composed. Around him, families murmur and shift in their seats. Cameras rise and lower. Programs are folded, unfolded, smoothed again.

  Pride sits beside fear in every row.

  Alaric watches the stage—not the way the families do, searching for faces—but with the practiced stillness of someone who has watched this ritual repeat across too many places.

  The banners hang stiffly overhead—deep blue trimmed with silver. The academy insignia is embroidered with obvious care, as if thread could hold back apocalypse. Defensive wards hum faintly along the walls, invisible but constant.

  A precaution.

  Always a precaution.

  “Ah,” a voice says, sliding into the seat beside him. “Professor Parks.”

  Alaric glances over.

  Mr. Graves sits down—well dressed, neatly kept, the sort of man who can belong to a boardroom and a battlefield report in the same day. He smiles faintly as he settles.

  “Mr. Graves,” Alaric replies with a polite nod.

  “Quite the turnout,” Graves says, eyes on the stage. “My niece is walking today, so I figured I should be present. Keep my sister happy.” He exhales, then tilts his head slightly. “Truth be told, I’m more interested in the Institute’s pioneer class. A handful of these cadets have already committed.”

  He glances sideways.

  “Your son is walking today, yes?”

  “Indeed,” Alaric says. “He is.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “I should be.”

  Graves blinks at the bluntness but chooses not to pry. He clears his throat and faces forward.

  Beyond the reinforced structure—beyond the city itself—the world continues to decay. The Rot spreads with patient indifference. Hope is rationed and redistributed like supplies.

  The Rot does not care about ceremonies.

  A voice carries through the hall, crisp and amplified.

  “Class One.”

  Applause rises.

  “Malika St. Claire!”

  A young woman walks across the platform with confidence, smiling as she accepts her certificate and turns for the cameras.

  The audience cheers like applause can keep the walls standing.

  “Matthias St. Claire!”

  Another wave of noise. A boy with perfect posture and a controlled expression crosses the stage like he owns it. Alaric sees the performance beneath the performance—the ego polished like armor, the insecurity it’s hiding.

  Graves leans slightly toward Alaric again. “Which class is your son in?”

  “Class Thirteen.”

  “Ah,” Graves says, pleased. “Same as Yvette.”

  Class Two.

  Class Three.

  “Paul Jones!”

  An anomaly. A massive boy ducks as he steps into the light—six-eight and built like a battering ram. His family erupts.

  “That’s my baby!” someone screams, voice cracking with joy.

  Paul grins and accepts his certificate like it weighs nothing.

  Class Four.

  Class Five.

  The pattern repeats.

  Alaric has seen this many times before. Different cities. Different academies. Different worlds. Order imposed on chaos. Ritual used to disguise desperation.

  These places exist because humanity is losing.

  They never announce that part.

  As cadets cross the stage, Alaric notes signs the audience cannot see—the faint shimmer beneath skin. The mana sensitivity. The subtle tremor in hands that have already been too close to contaminated zones.

  Children trained to walk willingly toward endings they do not fully understand.

  The families applaud anyway.

  Class Seven.

  Class Nine.

  Alaric’s mind drifts, briefly, unwillingly, to the question he has been avoiding since dawn.

  Will he be sufficient?

  Jesse Parks is not remarkable by conventional metrics. No overwhelming talent. No polished purpose. No heroic conviction.

  Unfocused. Inconsistent. Emotionally compromised.

  He will resist the narrative instead of embracing it.

  And that, unfortunately, is precisely why he was chosen.

  The story does not need another believer.

  It needs an editor who doubts.

  Class Twelve is called. Applause swells, then fades.

  A pause follows—small, but felt.

  Even the announcer hesitates long enough for it to register.

  “Class Thirteen.”

  The room shifts.

  Not louder.

  Not quieter.

  Heavier.

  “Yvette Sousa!”

  Graves sits up straight, pride blooming immediately. “There she is—Yvette! Yes!”

  A brown-skinned girl with black hair strides across the platform like the stage belongs to her. Her family cheers, loud and shameless. She accepts her certificate and flashes a grin that looks like it could start a fight.

  A strong talent. A needed one.

  And, more importantly—a bridge.

  A way Jesse can anchor himself to the story without forcing it.

  The line continues.

  Alaric leans forward slightly as the next name approaches.

  And there he is.

  “Jesse Parks!”

  Jesse walks when his name is called—shoulders squared, gown settling awkwardly, like he hasn’t decided whether it belongs to him yet. He doesn’t smile for the cameras. He doesn’t play to the audience.

  His gaze flicks once toward Alaric.

  Their eyes meet—briefly.

  Then Jesse looks forward again.

  Good.

  He’s paying attention.

  “A fine young man,” Graves murmurs, clapping quietly. “You must be proud.”

  Alaric nods once. Smiles faintly—just enough to sell it.

  Alaric watches Jesse accept the certificate. Watches the handshake.

  And he catches it—the subtle moment of confusion on Jesse’s face as he notices the insignia on the document shift, ink rearranging itself into permanence as if the story has just locked another piece into place.

  The audience roars.

  Alaric remains still.

  Thinking.

  Brooding.

  Beyond Denver’s walls, the Rot continues its slow, patient work. A consciousness slowly flickering to life, stretching its mind, like an infant babbling English with a twisted tongue, attempting to mimic its mother’s speech. Mana saturates the land, crystalizing forests and flesh alike. Entire regions are no longer contested—they are simply gone. And somewhere deeper still, the author watches. Silent as always. Unmoved.

  Alaric exhales softly. He does not wish to fail anymore.

  Jesse stands with the rest of Class Thirteen—last of them. The final applause fades. The banners remain. The wards hum.

  Is he enough? Alaric wonders.

  Not strong enough to fight the Rot.

  Not built to command soldiers.

  But perhaps—just perhaps—capable enough to choose when the story must bend instead of break.

  That is all that can be asked of him.

  The ceremony concludes.

  ~~~~

  Outside, the crowd spills into sunlight and noise.

  Mr. Graves settles his hat on his head and extends a hand to Alaric.

  “A pleasure as always, Professor. I’ll see you at our first faculty meeting.”

  Alaric shakes his hand. “Of course. Take care, Mr. Graves.”

  Then he waits—by the edge of the parking lot, mind moving faster than the crowd.

  Jesse exits with Yvette, mid-conversation, like he’s being dragged through normalcy by force. They approach Alaric.

  “Congratulations are in order,” Alaric says, and for a moment his expression softens into something Jesse looks genuinely startled to see. “You both did well.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Parks!” Yvette says brightly.

  “Yep,” Jesse replies flatly. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Yvette turns on him immediately. “Oh! Mr. Parks—can you take a picture of us?”

  “What?” Jesse asks, blinking.

  “Of course,” Alaric says, already accepting Yvette’s phone like this is the most ordinary request in the world.

  Yvette throws an arm around Jesse and flashes a V with the other hand.

  “One,” Alaric says calmly. “Two. Three.”

  The shutter clicks.

  Then again.

  Then again.

  Yvette snatches her phone back, checking the photos with approval. “Perfect. I’ll text these to you, Jess—but I gotta go.” She jerks her chin toward her family in the distance. “Got a whole photo massacre thing to live through.”

  She runs off before Jesse can respond, swallowed by relatives and shouting.

  Jesse stands there a moment, a little dazed.

  But he’s smiling.

  A real one. Probably the first genuine one since waking up in this world.

  Alaric watches it like a scientist observing a rare, useful reaction.

  “Well,” Alaric says, “I could use a drink.”

  Jesse’s head snaps toward him. Eyes widening.

  “A drink?” he repeats. “You drink?”

  “Coffee,” Alaric clarifies.

  “Oh.”

  Jesse deflates so fast it’s almost impressive.

  “…Right.”

  Alaric’s mouth twitches as he pats Jesse’s back with a high reach. “Come. We have work to do.”

  And together, they step away from the crowd—away from the applause—toward the part of the story that actually matters.

  ~~~~

  The coffee shop smelt like burnt beans and sugar.

  It’s the sort of place that really wants to feel comforting—at least it tries to. Warm lights, mismatched furniture, soft music humming just loud enough to fill silence without demanding your constant attention. The sort of place people come to pretend they’re thinking about important things while really just killing time.

  Alaric is at the counter, speaking quietly with the barista. The poor girl had to lean over the counter to speak with him because he was so short. He orders with the same careful politeness he does everything else, posture straight, voice measured. I don’t hear what he says, but I can already guess. He seems like a straight black coffee person. Thankfully lattes stuck around in this world, I always had to go with something sweeter for myself. My itch for alcohol and nicotine can usually be curbed for a while with sugar and caffeine.

  He pays in cash, of course he does.

  I drift a few steps away, hands in my jacket pockets, eyes wandering. My mind is still reeling from the events of today. The state of the world and humanity as a whole. It is just so incredibly grim but life seems to go on as normal. Even in this little corner of it all.

  I notice a bookshelf. Neatly tucked away against the far wall.

  A community shelf. Pretty neat. Paperbacks, hardcovers, and spines worn smooth from fingers that linger while drinks cool. I scan the titles absently at first. Just slightly curious if I notice anything familiar.

  I don’t.

  Even a few that seemed familiar, picking them up I knew nothing about them. Not the authors. Not the names. A few sound or look familiar, but I don’t end up knowing anything about them. I pick one at random, flip it open, I see it is some soapy romance piece and close it just as quickly as I open it. Not for me. Nothing speaks to me on this shelf.

  I put it back.

  That’s when I spotted it.

  A Bible.

  It sat in the middle of the shelf like it had always belonged there. Black leather cover. Thin pages pressed tight inside, edges gleaming faintly—silvered, like someone had run a blade along them for decoration. The letters on the spine were gold-embossed, worn down at the corners by hands that had carried it and gripped it and maybe, in quieter moments, begged it to say something back.

  I felt my breath catch itself in that stupid way it does when the past reaches out without warning. I didn’t really think about why before I just reached for it.

  The leather was real. Not cheap imitation. It bore that faint, old smell—oil and dust comes to mind. Still, it was solid in my hands, heavier than it looked but familiar in its weight. When I opened it, those pages whispered softly, like the book had been holding its breath.

  I stared at the text.

  I wasn’t in the coffee shop anymore.

  I was in my first foster home. It smelled like lemon cleaner from a can and casserole baking in an electric oven that was falling apart. I was sitting on a couch that had plastic protectors still on the cushions, wearing clothes that weren’t mine yet and trying to act like I didn’t notice how carefully everyone watched me. I was hungry and frightened.

  They had just bought me that Bible.

  Not because I asked for it, but because they were the kind of people who believed the right book could fix the wrong kid.

  They’d pressed it into my hands like a gift, like the weight of it would anchor me. I still remember when they told me, with eyes shining with hope–or performance–God had a plan. The solemn expressions and nods. ‘God is working,’ they said. As if my life was a puzzle that had a mapped solution just around a corner.

  I wasn’t Christian. I never was. I didn’t have the kind of faith people talked about in boring testimonies. It was already hard enough trying to believe in a God who supposedly knew exactly what He was doing when the people speaking for Him couldn’t even figure out what to do with me. It was exhausting, the cadence of it all. Knowing when to stand, when to sit, when to clap and raise your hands. All in the name of a God I wasn’t even sure knew my name.

  Still… the stories stuck.

  I didn’t realize how much they did until I saw Genesis on the page.

  The paper was delicate under my fingers, almost translucent. The print sat in their tidy rows, confident, orderly. That old version of me—the one who tried to survive by learning everyone else’s rules—had known where things were in this book. I memorized all the stories. Kinda like memorizing the fire exits in a building you don’t quite trust.

  My eyes landed on the first line.

  In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

  I let out a quiet chuckle.

  It was one sentence but it does so much. No introduction needed, no hesitation and no apology.

  In the beginning.

  Not maybe. Not once upon a time. Not it is said. Just: God is, and He creates.

  Narratively, it was classy. You can’t challenge a story. Yet, the opening line dares you to try.

  I read on, letting that familiar rhythm settle into me.I felt… steadier. Almost comfortable, even. Like my mind had found a groove it remembered how to sit in it like the old days.

  And then my eyes snagged on it. That line that shouldn’t have existed.

  …And the world awaited its telling.

  I blinked.

  Read it again.

  That line was never there before. It makes no sense. It couldn’t be there. Genesis didn’t talk like that—Genesis didn’t admit that creation was never uncertain. It didn’t suggest the world was unfinished because no one had told it properly yet.

  I scanned the next verses, feeling a little miffed now. At first, everything looked close—close enough to trick someone who’d never read it. The same familiar bones. Light and dark. Waters and sky. The structure was all there.

  But every few lines, something shifted.

  A word swapped out like someone had edited the text with shaking hands. A phrase missing, replaced by something too honest. Too… human.

  And God saw what was made, and it was unfinished.

  What the fuck? My fingers curled against the page so tightly the paper creased beneath my thumb.

  Unfinished?

  The whole point of the Genesis story—at least the version drilled into me—was finality. God speaks and reality obeys. Creation isn’t a process. It’s a command. It happens because He says it does, and then it’s declared good, complete, done.

  There isn’t room for doubt in that story. There isn’t room for hesitation, for revision, for the suggestion that God Himself could pause and stare at His own work like he wasn’t sure what came next.

  I flipped forward, breath shallow, eyes hunting.

  The days of creation dragged in this version. The language leaned strange—less proclamation, more effort. God didn’t declare so much as He attempted. The pauses between actions felt longer. The cadence was… tired.

  And when the seventh day arrived, the rest didn’t read like satisfaction.

  It read like exhaustion.

  Like something had been set down, not because it was finished, but because the hands making it couldn’t hold it anymore.

  “Damn it.”

  It wasn’t just wrong. It was wrong in a way that felt targeted.

  Like the Bible in this world was telling a truth nobody was supposed to say out loud: that maybe the divine isn’t omnipotent here. That maybe creation itself is incomplete by design—or by failure.

  That maybe God started something and didn’t know how to end it.

  A laugh scraped out of me before I could stop it. It sounded flat, humorless.

  “Well,” I muttered, staring down at the page like it had insulted me personally, “that’s unfortunate.”

  A shadow fell beside me.

  Alaric stood there holding a styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and my sugary monstrosity with a straw sticking out of it in the other.

  He offered it toward me without looking at my face, like he’d timed this perfectly—maybe he did.

  I took the cup. The cold seeped into my fingers immediately, grounding me in a way the altered scripture couldn’t.

  “It’s the community shelf,” he said mildly. “Nobody wants those books anymore.”

  His tone was the same tone he used for everything—calm, measured, like he’d already filed this moment away under expected behavior.

  I scoff. Not looking at him right away. I kept my eyes on the Bible, on the black leather cover, on the thin pages that suddenly felt more fragile than they had a minute ago.

  “Funny,” I said, forcing the words through the tightness in my throat. “I just… didn’t expect the Bible to be different here.”

  “Everything is different here, you need to accept that.” Alaric replied, then sipped his coffee like he was tasting a weather report.

  I finally closed the Bible, slow and careful, like I was putting a lid on something that might spill out. I slid it back into its place on the shelf, pretending it hadn’t just rearranged something inside my chest.

  “That was just weird,” I added, quieter this time.

  “Indeed.”

  That was all he gave me. A nod. A sip. A calm presence that didn’t move to comfort me, didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t soften around my edges the way people used to soften around the foster kid when they didn’t know what to say. I felt myself snap.

  I glanced up at him, irritation flaring because it was easier than admitting anything else.

  “You’re never gonna not do that, huh?”

  “Do what?” he asked, eyes on me now, steady.

  I take a breath and suck my teeth.

  “I notice something that’s… off,” I said, gesturing at the shelf like it was a crime scene. “Something different. Something new. I make a comment about it.” My voice raises an octave now. His expression stays the same. “Which is basically me asking you to fill in the fucking blanks with your—your whole mysterious competence thing.”

  I notice a flicker at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Almost.

  “And instead,” I continued, “you answer like I already know the goddamn answer.”

  Alaric held my gaze over the rim of his cup. “You’re doing remarkably well so far,” he said. “One day here, and you graduated military school. Quite the achievement.”

  I scoffed, but it came out weak. The coffee was cold, sweet, and for a moment I hated how much I needed it.

  I looked back at the shelf, my eyes settling again on the black spine of the Bible.

  That was the real problem, wasn’t it?

  Not that everything was different now.

  No. It’s the opposite. Everything is too honest.

  The version I’d grown up around was certainty wrapped in poetry. God makes the world. God calls it good. God finishes.

  People had loved that story because it meant there was structure. Intention. A plan.

  They’d told me that too.

  ‘God has a plan for your life, Jesse.’

  As if my life was a book already written, and all I had to do was follow the goddamn page numbers.

  But plans had a funny way of falling apart the moment real people got involved.

  Foster parents with good intentions and worse tempers. Social workers with tired eyes and full caseloads. Pastors who preached hope and then looked at me like I was a problem to be managed.

  A plan that never accounted for what it felt like to be moved from house to house like old luggage.

  A plan that never explained why some creations get finished and some don’t.

  I stared at the Bible like it could stare back.

  ‘And the world awaited its telling.’

  Like the world was waiting for someone to make it make sense.

  Like it was incomplete until the right voice came along.

  And then the other line—unfinished—rose in my mind again, and something in me went quiet.

  Because I knew what it felt like to be unfinished.

  To be started by circumstances you didn’t choose. Shaped by hands that didn’t know what they were making. Left in half-formed states because no one had the patience to see you through.

  Maybe that was the God of this world.

  A God who creates, but doesn’t finish.

  A God who begins and then pauses, uncertain, exhausted, staring at His own work and realizing He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to become.

  And the awful part—the part that sat in my gut like a stone—was how familiar it all sounded. It made me angry.

  Alaric shifted beside me, the leather of his gloves creaking softly as he adjusted his grip on his cup. The silence stretched until it was almost uncomfortable, but I was good with those. The awkward silence.

  He spoke, voice firm as a handrail.

  “Enough idling,” he said. “We have work to do.”

  He reached down and patted my leg—brief, almost dismissive, like I was a dog that needed reminding it had a leash. It should’ve annoyed me more than it did.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My fingers tightened around my drink. The cold steadied me again.

  I followed him toward the door.

  But my mind kept snagging on the altered verse.

  A world waiting to be told… Told what?

  A creator who hadn’t finished… Why?

  I stepped out into the cold air, Alaric beside me, coffees in hand, and the thoughts followed like a shadow: If this world was unfinished—if even God was uncertain—then what did that mean for us? And worse—what could it possibly expect for this design to actually become?