"Spawn kill! That is absolute garbage!" Screaming at the glowing monitor, I threw my hands up in mock outrage. Laughter erupted beside me, warm and incredibly irritating. Wilbur leaned back in his beanbag chair, his fingers flying across his keyboard as his own character did a victorious crouch over my virtual grave. "Skill issue, Toms," Wilbur teased, his brown curls bouncing as he shook his head. "Absolute skill issue." "Shut up, Will!" I yelled, ignoring the dull, throbbing ache pulsing deep inside my palms. Gesticulating wildly with my controller, I pointed a finger at his smug face. "You cheated!" I insisted. "You clearly used some kind of hack. I am the biggest man in this server, and I demand justice!" "Justice is for winners," he countered, flashing a smug, dimpled grin that made me want to pelt him with my headset. Deep down, my chest felt incredibly tight. My hands still burned from earlier tonight. Just hours before, those same hands had been coated in warm, thick fluids that didn't belong to me. Fleshy tendrils had burst from my knuckles, tearing through fabric and skin alike in the dark alleyways of the city center. I had fought Sovereign again. Our weekly clash had been bloodier than usual, leaving me bruised, battered, and utterly drained. Yet, here I was, sitting next to my favorite person in the world, pretending my heart wasn't trying to escape my ribs. "One more round," I demanded, grabbing my controller with a white-knuckled grip. "I'll destroy you this time. I swear it on my primary channel." "Go to sleep, gremlin," Wilbur laughed, reaching over to ruffle my hair. "You've got a morning shift, and I have a mountain of paperwork to ignore." "Sleep is for the weak," I mumbled, though my eyelids felt like lead weights. We stayed up for another hour, our banter filling the quiet room, shielding me from the horrific memories of my other life. Eventually, the screen went black, and the heavy silence of the night crept back in. My mind drifted to the alleyway, to the sharp sound of my bone-blade slicing through the air, and the grunt of pain from the city's golden boy. Pushing the thought away, I forced a grin as I bid Wilbur goodnight and crawled into my own bed. Sleep did not come easily. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flashing blue lights of the hero patrols and felt the sickening crunch of bone meeting armor. When my alarm finally blared at five in the morning, I felt more exhausted than when I had laid down. Staring at my hands in the dim light of dawn, I flexed them slowly to make sure no rogue bones decided to sprout from my knuckles. Satisfied that I was still relatively human-looking, I pulled on my worn-out sneakers and headed out. --- Dragging my feet through the front doors of the Golden Grind, I inhaled the sharp scent of roasted espresso. Morning light filtered through the dusty windows, casting long shapes across the wooden floorboards. Apron straps felt heavy around my neck, a physical reminder of the fragile normalcy I desperately clung to. "

Chapter 1: Flesh, Foam, and Broken Feathers