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Content warnings: broken bones, descriptions of wounds (detail below; skip if you prefer surprises)

• A character intentionally breaks their leg bones.

• Wounds are mentioned briefly but not described in graphic detail.

~.~

Joshua’s first instinct was to crumple up the letter and throw it away. He did not need this kind of bullshit in his life. The threat at the beginning of the letter was inconsequential to Joshua, because the Soul Stealers already knew about his powers, and they already had him firmly under their thumb. He moonlit as a bodyguard for Red Scorpions executives, he ran deliveries for the Company, and he fudged accounting records for the Maceo Syndicate when needed. Being formally reported to the Soul Stealers wouldn’t change any of that.

The only thing that kept the letter firmly in his hands was the last sentence.

P.S. - We have a way to protect Joel. Work with me, and you’ll never have to fear the Soul Stealers again.

Sunny, smiling Joel—the brother he’d practically raised by his own hand. If this person really had a way to protect Joel, that could change everything.

Maybe, just maybe, Joshua could finally be free.

Joshua let out an exasperated sigh, ruffling his wings in frustration. It was chilling to think that someone other than the Soul Stealers knew this much about his life. As he made his way back inside, Joshua couldn’t help but wonder who had written the letter. Perhaps it was a test of loyalty from the Soul Stealers. More likely, it was a letter from…

Joshua shuddered. He didn’t like to think about the people he dreamed about on a nightly basis. There were seven of them—eight, if you counted the dead girl—and every night, his dreams showed montages of their lives. At first, he’d thought the dreams were just strangely realistic, conjured by his own mind—until he’d met Joel’s music teacher and realized, with a start, that they were one of the people he’d been dreaming about since his teenage years. After a chat with said music teacher, he’d come to the conclusion that not only had he been dreaming about these seven strangers—they’d been dreaming about him, too.

It could have been one of them who wrote the letter. They would have known enough. But it didn’t seem likely from what he’d seen—all seven strangers with whom his life was strangely intertwined went to great lengths to hide their powers. Three were in the mafia, though, so maybe…? Joshua’s head hurt just thinking about it.

He stormed back into his apartment, where Joel was innocently eating breakfast at their small dining table in their cramped kitchen. As he walked, he shuffled through the rest of the mail: bills, bills, and more bills. Not all of the bills were for the apartment; many were for his accounting clients. Some were for the mafia.

“I’m going to be out late tonight,” Joshua said curtly, his tone full of barely restrained anger. “Spend the night at Michael’s house.” Joel gave him a questioning look. Icy guilt stabbed through Joshua’s heart.

Was taking this gamble really worth it?

No, Joshua thought. But… With one last look at Joel, he stuffed the letter into his pocket and turned towards the cup of coffee he’d left on the counter. It was lukewarm now, but maybe it would still help. Maybe.

~.~

Excitement thrummed under Peter’s skin as he made his way down the dirt road towards the line of warehouses. It was odd for Peter to receive a letter in the first place—he didn’t exactly know tons of people who would send him letters, and his apartment wasn’t even one of the nice ones with a mailbox—but sure enough, he’d found the letter slipped under his door this morning. A few lines from the letter still echoed in his mind.

I do not want your money or valuables, nor do I have any reason to wish you dead.

Peter doubted that. In this world, money was all that mattered to most people, and it wasn’t like Peter had any money to give. The only bargaining chip Peter had was his life. But if there was someone who wanted something other than Peter’s (nonexistent) valuables, Peter wanted to meet them. He wanted to see with his own eyes this person whose desires ran deeper than the superficial motivations of wealth and revenge that drove the world.

Peter slipped through the warehouse doors, sticking to the shadows in case the whole thing was a trap. One could never be too careful! After all, the last time Peter hadn’t checked, he’d gotten caught by an enemy mafia gang and forced to fight his way out in a series of arena matches. And the time before that, he’d been strung up by his ankles, and the time before that—

The warehouse was a wide open space with walls of steel and a concrete floor. A thin layer of dust covered everything, from the large, industrial-sized crates against the far wall, to the crane and forklifts along the right side, to the large tarp in the center of the room. The left wall took the form of two large bay doors. Lining the walls was a catwalk-type second floor, and the stairs to reach the second story were tucked behind the crane. The overhead lights were off, so the space was lit only by moonlight streaming in through large windows near the ceiling.

There were already six people lingering in the warehouse, and Peter realized that he knew these people. Well, know was a strong word, but he did at least recognize them.

Off to one side, speaking in low whispers to each other were a Black man with hair pulled back in a tight bun and an Arab woman wearing a purple cardigan. Rae and Karyme, or as Peter referred to them in his head, Edgy Lawyer and Lesbian Librarian. Yeah, that sounded right. Across from them, a cheerful person with tan skin, a bright blue sweater, and a dark miniskirt (that was Lian, the Music Clown) was babbling cheerfully to a man with large, white wings (who went by Joshua, but Peter much preferred his nickname of Angry Pigeon). Angry Pigeon Man was gritting his teeth and trying desperately to ignore Lian. It wasn’t working very well. In the corner, Dani (Peter had no problem with her name, since he knew her personally) was sharpening a knife. In the other corner, a White girl with long, red-brown hair (Morgan, or as he liked to call her, Shouty) was glaring at everyone.

Peter contemplated for a second why all of the people from his dreams were here.

And then he stopped thinking about that, because it was a little weird, but nothing to be too spooked about! After all, his dreams had shown him most of their talents, so he was well prepared if they did choose to fight him, and besides—none of them had a reason to hurt him (yet). Instead, Peter plopped down on the ground next to Morgan. No sense waiting in total discomfort, right? After all, if Peter had done his math right, there was still one person missing.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, the final player appeared: a short, Filipino person with a pixie cut and golden hoop earrings. Peter would be hard-pressed not to recognize his idol in the mafia—one Juli de Leon. Their eyes sharpened as their gaze landed on Peter, and they gave him a subtle nod.

“Good, we’re all here.” Peter snapped to attention at the unfamiliar voice. It had come from… above? Peter scanned the catwalk, and sure enough, there was a dark-skinned teen with curly black hair and rectangular glasses standing on a ceiling beam. The teen hopped down to ground level, almost nonchalantly, and a sickening crack echoed through the space as their leg bones broke.

And then the teen stood up as if nothing had happened. The left side of the teen’s face was crusted over with dried blood, and blood-soaked bandages wrapped around their right arm. Their clothes were torn, their face streaked with dirt, and they looked emaciated. So, like the average kid living in the streets. With the ability to break bones so easily, maybe this person did live in the streets. Peter would have to ask them later, assuming they didn’t try to kill Peter first.

“My name is Haku Mahelona,” the teen said. Their voice held an aura of authority. “You… probably wouldn’t recognize that name. Not now.” They straightened their glasses. “I called you here because I need your help.”

“Yeah, well, blackmail is a funny way to ask for help,” Morgan snapped, rising to her feet. “The answer’s no, asshole.” Haku made a sound of dissatisfaction.

“If you leave now, I will tell your father you were here,” they said simply. Morgan froze, then returned to her position with a glare that could melt steel. An icy wind blew through the space, and the temperature seemed to drop with each step Morgan took.

All Peter could think about was his desire to steal Haku’s glasses.

“Wait.” Karyme stepped forward. “You’re not—you’re not the Haku Mahelona. The immortal one?” Haku raised an eyebrow.

“...Yes, I am,” they replied, their tone skeptical. “How do you know that?” Karyme’s reply came almost too quickly.

“I’m an archivist,” she explained. “And I just happened to find records that implied—”

“I see,” Haku interjected. “We have limited time, so I’m going to cut you off there.” The immortal(?) closed their eyes, and tendrils of orange light snaked outwards from their body, infusing everything in the space with orange.

As the glow around Haku grew brighter, Peter reconsidered his decision to steal Haku’s glasses. It would be fun, maybe, but an immortal who just recovered from a bunch of broken bones in less than five seconds probably made a bad target. But…

Peter wiggled his fingers at his sides, ready to levitate Haku’s glasses off of their face, when suddenly, Haku turned to look Peter directly in the eye.

“Please do not try to steal my glasses,” they said thinly. “This is my last pair.”

Oh. Oh fuck. So Haku could read minds—that was pretty cool! Peter immediately switched to concentrating as hard as he could on the image of a cabbage in underpants. If Haku was reading Peter’s mind, they seemed to ignore that particular thought.

“I know that my letter came off as a threat,” Haku continued, still glowing, “and I apologize for that, but to be frank, I did not call you here to report you to the Soul Stealers. That would be…” Haku let out a bitter chuckle. “A little counterproductive.”

“Here’s the deal. I need your help. My friends—” Here, Haku’s voice cracked a little, but they quickly shook it off. “My fellow immortals and I have been held captive by the Soul Stealers for the last fifty years. Last week, I finally managed to escape, but I couldn’t—I can’t—save them by myself. That is why I called you here today.”

Peter could understand that—the urge to protect the people you care about at all costs. He’d been in that situation once himself.

Haku opened their mouth to continue, then closed it. Their expression hardened, and they gestured for all of you to come closer. “They’re here.”

“They, who?” Lian asked innocently, cocking their head to the side.

“The Soul Stealers,” Karyme said grimly, pointing to the warehouse entrance. Sure enough, in the open entrance to the warehouse stood seven men in combat fatigues silhouetted against the moonlit night.

Peter cracked his knuckles. A grin spread across his face. A fight! He wasn’t sure about all this immortal business, but he could handle a fight. It wasn’t that he enjoyed fights or anything, but they came more naturally than most things. After all, he’d been fighting since he was born.

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