It was his third straight day without sleep. Michael's eyes burned red as if the vessels in them were on the verge of bursting. In his dark cave, as he cursed the life he felt undeserving of, preserved merely by his cowardice disguised in hero's clothing. His black thoughts manifested in the malevolent shadows that taunted him in the open and fled from his sight like ghosts when he chased them. Spread across the desktop of his computer were dozens of open windows, all files from his starred folder, and every one of them containing photos of them with her: where they were going, what they usually did. He opened different files and spread each window over his desktop until he thought they revealed a clearer picture; a different picture than he had already discarded twenty or so times before. Or, as they normally did, create a locus of clarity, at the expense of the rest of it becoming lost in a shroud farther from a solution than when he began. Trapped in his personal inferno, he spent hours being ridden around by the demon until he was finally given to the temptation to do what he knew needed to be done.

The early sun spilled a vibrant orange paint over the dense, dark blanket of the fading night sky as he crept into the hallway in his dingy white socks. He took the utmost caution to avoid the floorboards that creaked until finally he reached his mother's bedroom. He nudged the door. With every inch, the door purred and moaned from its tired hinges. Finally, he was in.

He kept an eye on his mother as she snored, pausing every so often as she tossed in her slumber. Under the bed he found the trunk, latched shut by a four-number combination lock. He had long realized that the combination was just his birthday, but had never thought he'd ever have any use for what was inside the trunk. Plus, he knew what the consequences would be if his mother knew he had gone inside his father's safe.

Gently, he slid the box out from underneath the bed, glancing one last time up at his mother one last time. She was still sound asleep. He twisted the combination knobs and unlatched the box. He marveled at the weapon resting in its encasement: his father's .45 caliber pistol. He picked it up and held it. It was so heavy. It made his joints buckle and his arm sag. Michael couldn't think. His fingers tingled, compelled to trace its icy body with every ridge of his fingertips, and envelope it in his palm. When he pressed the fatty part of his hand against it, he could feel his own heartbeat throbbing; the vessels beneath his skin burst open, and his blood flow intensified. He felt the power of which he spoke. And it felt— superhuman.

***

The morning air was crisp and cold. Michael tried his best to stifle his shivering body as he cradled the pistol in his jacket pocket like he was afraid it would fall out. As he continued to pace along and the city began to come alive, Michael found himself losing his nerve. He walked in an endless circle, pining over what he planned to do next. He passed by the bakery and the coffee shop and the convenience store. Everywhere he saw people he knew. He passed the bar, and of course, the town drunk who was sleeping on the sidewalk outside.

There were men around him, jeering him as he lay on his side, babbling in some incomprehensible garble that only prompted more ridicule. The men tossed bagel crumbs at the old man, and cackled with glee as he scampered along on his belly to scoop them up. That's when they felt the eyes on them, a tiny set of eyes leering at them from half a block away.

"What? You got a problem or somethin'?" the largest man snarled with his huge fist clenched in a tight ball.

"Yeah, I do," Michael snapped back with a boldness in his tone he never knew he was capable of. He tightened his grasp around the gun as it rested in his pocket. "Leave 'em alone."

The man curled his lips into a toothy smirk once he realized Michael was just a teen. "Ay, calm down, kid. This just is how we play with our old friend Larry over here."

"My name's not Larry," grumbled the old drunk.

The man rolled his eyes. "Like I was saying, we were just playin' with Larry." He lurched toward Michael until his shadow loomed over him. "But if it's a problem, then..."

Michael's heart was pounding so loudly he could feel it in his eardrums. Slowly, he began to lift the gun from his jacket pocket. But, just as the silver touched the light of day,

"Hey! What gives!" came a shouting from inside the bar. The owner barged outside and shook his fist at them. "Go loiter somewhere else, ya bums! We're not even open yet."

"Who you callin' a bum, old man?" the ringleader grumbled before conceding and turning to his companions. "Come on, let's go." The other three followed his lead as he dug his hands in his pockets and sauntered off down the road. They trudged on, leaving Michael standing there alone. A wave of relief washed over him. This wasn't the time to use it, he thought.

There was a faint, yet incessant scribbling sound nearby. Michael's eyes searched the ground, following the noise. He found the old drunk, laying flat on his stomach, haplessly scribbling on the sidewalk with a pebble, as if he were writing something in a language that only he could understand. He was barefoot, the bottoms of his feet were black and red and swollen, and he had jagged nails that hadn't been trimmed in ages, they curled over like claws. His gaze wandered up his breezy pant leg, and then to a torso which looked like it had imploded on itself, bulging from his back and bursting with tumors the size of hilly dunes. His skeleton wriggled at the elbows as it tore along etching on the concrete, manifesting his cluttered mental impressions and his unworldly machinations. Suddenly, the gray, old man stopped. His dry, scaly lips parted and in a low groan he said, "Come here, child."

"What is it?" Michael said. He nervously tiptoed over to the old man. He raised his bony hand to his head, pressing a firm digit to his bald cranium.

"My name..."

"Yeah?"

"My name is...is..." He opened his eyes further, exposing even more of the stark, pale orbs. But his lips began to tremble and he lowered his hand. He could not remember.

Michael waved a dismissive hand as he dug in his pocket and placed a coin near the beggar's face.

"Get help, old man. Not another bottle."

Michael stopped in front of an iron gate, at the mouth of the huge black behemoth. From deep within came a lurching murmur, a quiet bellow, as if the slum was breathing. It came like an ominous lullaby, a siren song toward which its prey reluctantly approached, swaying in obedience with each rhythmic bound into nowhere. The murmur guided him as he ferociously swam through the dank air; soon it grew to a growl. Its bellows quaked the tunnel walls and sent a violent shock through his knees. It jarred him out of his bones.

His fingers touched the cold metal surface, and he pushed forward. The iron gate yielded an ear-splitting shriek. There was a tall, slender man with wild bleach-blond hair leaning against the wall in the corner of the courtyard smoking a cigarette. His high cheekbones and narrow eyes made him look like a weasel.

"You look lost," he purred as the smoke seeped from his lips and his grin shaped like an ivory razor blade.

"Well, I'm not, so mind your business," growled Michael.

The skinny man shrugged his shoulders, conceding to him with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, tough guy. My mistake."

Michael continued onward through the barren courtyard. He was bludgeoned with the smell of ashes and dank, musty stone. In the center, impeding his path was a ruined chassis of a burned up patrol car, with its familiar blue and red flashers smashed open on top.

His breath shortened; the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he looked skyward. From here, he could see the place where they were keeping Jasmine.