Alma arrived back in Henry, quietly walking through the familiar streets of the small town. The sight that greeted him was simple yet comforting: people chatting in front of stores, children laughing in the distance, and neighbors exchanging goods like nothing had ever gone wrong. It filled him with a quiet warmth. Most of these people likely had no idea what had truly transpired—what he had done—and those who did, like Mayor Creighton, were far too preoccupied to stir public concern.
As Alma continued on, he approached the modest church near the town square—the very one the mayor and a few generous townsfolk helped to rebuild. He stopped just a few feet away, his eyes fixed on Creighton, who stood atop a ladder, hammering a nail into a thick, four-by-four plank of wood. The mayor's face was flushed from labor, one hand balancing himself while the other swung the hammer with practiced rhythm.
"Hey! Mr. Mayor!" Alma called out, raising his voice just enough to catch his attention.
Creighton flinched, nearly dropping the hammer as he looked down, startled.
"Y-yeah!? Oh—Alma! How's it going?!" His voice cracked slightly, a mix of surprise and sudden tension rising beneath his casual tone.
"Pretty good!" Alma responded cheerfully. "Say, could you come down for a moment? I promise it won't take long."
"Yeah, yeah, sure! Just give me a second," Creighton replied. He quickly passed his tools to a nearby man, then climbed down the ladder, dusting his hands on his pants as he approached Alma.
He stood still, waiting for Alma to speak, his smile still halfway between genuine and uneasy.
"I did it," Alma said plainly, then elaborated with the same calm, almost detached voice. "I defeated all of the Beasts of Ruin."
Creighton froze. His face fell blank, and for a long moment, his mouth hung slightly open, as if his mind couldn't process the words.
"Excuse me?" he finally asked, barely above a whisper, his voice laced with disbelief and unease.
"Torrington. Scottsbluff. Lyman. I took out all the Beasts of Ruin in those areas. It's done," Alma said, as if he were reporting the completion of a routine task.
Creighton stepped forward and grabbed Alma firmly by the shoulders. His expression was no longer just shocked—it was fearful.
"Alma… do you understand what you've done?" His voice trembled slightly, weighted with concern and dread.
Alma blinked, then shook his head slowly, as if the implications hadn't occurred to him. "Not really. There was this molerat-like Beast of Ruin surrounded by a decaying mist, and another one—a moth—that could spawn smaller Beasts of Ruin. I'm pretty sure that's what it was doing, since the ones it created had the same decaying effect as the molerat. Then there was a massive one—easily the size of a medium-sized mountain. Absolutely terrifying. It had a cannon powerful enough to level mountains, and a huge sword that could carve canyons into the earth. But they were unexpectedly weak. All except that massive one."
Creighton stared at him in disbelief. From the way Alma described them, those Beasts of Ruin sounded like some of the most dangerous ever encountered—monsters that leveled mountains and rotted the world around them. And yet, Alma spoke of them like they were little more than a passing annoyance.
"…What?" was all Creighton could manage, his mind scrambling to process the sheer absurdity of what he'd just heard.
After some while, Creighton chose to sit aside the actual monsters, and focus on the time it took Alma to defeat them. "Hold on, you took down three Beasts of Ruin? In a single day? In what, three hours?"
"An hour and forty-five minutes, actually," Alma corrected without a hint of arrogance, just stating a fact.
"You're not helping," Creighton muttered, almost under his breath. He exhaled sharply, clearly rattled. "Alma… that kind of feat isn't just rare—it's unheard of. That's something only Monarchs are even remotely capable of. This isn't something you shrug off."
Alma's expression remained impassive. "What's so special about Monarchs anyway? If these Beasts of Ruin supposedly require their power, they're not exactly impressive. Not to sound arrogant, but I didn't even break a sweat. That huge one might've been able to hurt me, maybe even kill me, but it wasn't fast enough to matter."
Creighton was silent for a moment, his jaw slack. He rubbed his temple before finally responding.
"Alma, Monarchs are considered among the most powerful beings on the planet. Think of corrupt politicians, but with the actual power to level nations singlehandedly. And the Beasts of Ruin? They match that level. People say a single Beast equals a Monarch. That means what you did should've taken three Monarchs working together. The one with the massive sword and cannon alone? Definitely Monarch-level. And so were the moth and the molerat."
Alma's eyes widened with genuine surprise. "You're kidding. Those two? Monarch-level? But they weren't… special. They just looked cool."
Creighton shook his head at Alma's naivety. "That's the mistake people make. It's not about how 'cool' they look. It's about what they can do. The molerat's corrosive mist could destroy infrastructure and ecosystems. The moth could spawn clones of itself that overwhelmed entire areas. Both had the potential to collapse civilizations. That alone makes them Monarch-level. But the giant one? That thing wasn't just capable of ending a country—it could erase the land a country stood on."
Alma folded his arms, frowning slightly. "If that's true, and I can beat them, but I still couldn't overthrow a nation by normal means, then something doesn't add up. Either the Monarchs are hiding something, or they're not as strong as people think. Maybe they're holding back for a reason—something darker, or selfish. I wouldn't put it past them."
Despite his brilliant mind, Alma couldn't grasp what Creighton was trying to tell him—about his power, or what it truly meant. Maybe it was humility. Maybe stubbornness. Maybe both. But whatever the reason, Alma remained blind to the full extent of his own strength—and to the strength of those around him.
Creighton stepped back slightly, his brows furrowed. "There's evidence, Alma. Monarchs come back from missions barely clinging to life. Life-threatening wounds. Scars that never heal."
"Evidence can be staged," Alma said, his tone cool and unwavering. "If they wanted to, they could easily make it look like they were struggling. Maybe they let themselves get hit, just to dramatize the battle. To fool everyone into thinking these fights are hard-won."
Creighton sighed. He'd knew he could never win with how stubborn Alma was.
"You've never even met a Monarch. What do you have against them?" he asked, hoping to understand more than argue.
"I don't need to meet them," Alma replied sharply. "You've told me enough. They're corrupt. Greedy. Selfish. They don't stop the Beasts of Ruin because they care about people—they do it because if they don't, their power, their wealth, their entire way of life disappears."
Alma's eyes narrowed as his voice darkened.
"Imagine having the power to change the world. To end suffering. And using that power only to serve yourself. That kind of betrayal of responsibility? It disgusts me."
Creighton remained silent, then slowly nodded. "I don't disagree with all of that. But I like to believe some of them are different. That some Monarchs are out there doing what they do for the right reasons—for the people."
Alma considered this, then nodded. "Perhaps. There's always light where there's darkness. But I wonder—does this darkness exist because the light is gone… or because it's self made?"
Creighton blinked. "What does that even mean?"
Alma didn't answer. Instead, he changed the subject entirely. "Is there anything else you need me to do? I'm heading to North Carolina next."
Creighton raised a brow. "No, nothing comes to mind. I imagine the President's team will handle things from here. Why North Carolina, though?"
Alma's body subtly tensed, though his expression remained controlled. He couldn't tell Creighton the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because if Creighton knew what he truly was—what he represented—he might look at him with fear, or worse, revulsion.
"I need to check something. Please don't ask any more than that," Alma said gently, his hand resting near his chest, palm facing Creighton in a subtle plea.
Creighton hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. I won't pry. But if you're investigating something, you should consider stopping by Washington D.C. You could find information—just… don't do anything illegal."
Alma smiled faintly. "Thank you. But I'll stick to North Carolina for now. Sometimes, seeing something for yourself is the only truth that matters."
He extended his hand. Creighton took it without hesitation, gripping it firmly.
"Don't forget about us here in Nebraska, alright? I'm still grateful—for everything you've done. Not just for Henry, but for the other towns too. You're a good man, Alma Alastor," Creighton said.
Alma nodded. "Thank you, Creighton. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat… though, that wouldn't be all too good for the townspeople, huh?"
Creighton chuckled. "No, no—it certainly wouldn't be. And call me Creighton."
"I will." Alma gave one last smile. "Guess this is goodbye. For now. Once I've handled things, I'll come back. I promise."
Creighton nodded again, then turned to leave, stopping briefly.
"Be safe. Goodbye, Alma."
"Goodbye, Creighton."
And with that, the two men walked in opposite directions.
Finally, Alma could focus on what had brought him here in the first place—his true objective: traveling to North Carolina. But now, with the recent discovery of just how fast he could move, and with not a single coin in his pocket, a commercial flight was no longer necessary.
He walked toward the outskirts of Henry, the familiar dirt roads and weathered trees becoming fewer with each step. A strange weight sat at the edge of his mind. Would he return to this town? Would he see Creighton again? Surely he would… right? There was no reason to abandon the fragile yet growing bond between them. Right?
And yet—there it was again. That nagging feeling clawing its way up from the depths of his subconscious. Something unspoken. Something he kept buried. A fear he'd long refused to name.
Alma activated Eyes of Despair.
His pupils expanded until they overtook the whites of his eyes, leaving only a faint crimson ring in the center of each socket. He knelt low, fingers digging into the cool dirt, knees bent, body tense. He dared not go full speed—not here. If he misjudged the distance between Nebraska and North Carolina, he could end up lost in the Atlantic.
He took a deep breath, then launched forward.
The ground cracked beneath him, a concussive shockwave ripping through the trees as Alma vanished into a blur. The world around him smeared into motion, unrecognizable to any human eye—but he saw it all perfectly. Mountains, cliffs, and hillsides blurred past him, their stone faces torn and cracked in his wake.
Three minutes later, Alma came to a halt just outside Ewing, Virginia. He stood at the edge of a serene and forgotten place—a secluded pond cradled by a dense forest and fed by a small waterfall. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, catching droplets in the air like scattered diamonds. Massive boulders surrounded the pond's edge like ancient guardians.
This was the first stop of his journey—not by necessity, but by desperation.
In the entire time he had spent on Earth—three years and then some—Alma had never taken a bath. Not once.
He didn't have the money for soap. For water. For anything. Soaking in this pond would have to suffice. He wondered, bitterly, how Creighton—or that distracted woman he'd spoken to—or anyone else for that matter hadn't gagged when he passed by.
Alma removed his clothes methodically, hanging his shirt, pants, and socks over a low-hanging branch. His shoes dangled from the end. He soaked his underwear in the water, wrung it out tightly, then laid it across a sun-drenched rock to dry.
Finally, he stepped into the pond. The cool water met his skin like a calming breath. He waded deeper, then submerged himself entirely, letting the silence of the water consume him.
He surfaced moments later with a long, drawn-out exhale. If only someone were here to massage his shoulders—now that would've made the moment perfect.
Alma smiled to himself and splashed about playfully. Three years of grime. Three years of sweat and filth. Three years of grease tangled in his hair—washed away in an instant. And Alma felt… happy.
But as he floated in the water, staring up at the slowly darkening sky, his mind returned to Creighton's words.
Washington D.C.
Could that place really offer him the answers he sought? If his home in North Carolina no longer existed, would D.C. hold satellite images? Land ownership records? He doubted he'd have access to any of it. Most of that information was probably sealed tight, locked behind passwords and clearance levels. Something he didn't want to go through again.
Then the fear surfaced again. Stronger this time.
Alma shook his head hard, refusing to let it take root. He swam toward the shallows. As the water reached his knees, he suddenly felt it—that unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He turned.
A woman stood where he had just been. Naked. Unbothered. Beautiful in a way that bordered on surreal. Her long purple hair cascaded past her hips, her body a flawless sculpture that made Alma freeze in place.
She stepped toward him, her eyes being covered by her hair. Alma didn't move.
She pressed herself against him, her skin icy to the touch, making the already cool water feel warm by comparison. She pushed him back gently until his body met a large rock behind him. Then, slowly, she lifted her knee and pressed it against his crotch.
Alma's vision began to flutter. His mind wavered, flickering between clarity and disorientation. He tried to push her off—tried to summon strength into his arms—but they felt limp and numb. Weak.
A deep, haunting sound echoed through the air—a chime, metallic and holy, like the ringing of a distant cathedral bell. It wasn't just heard. It was felt. The sound seemed to exist inside and outside of his skull, vibrating through his bones. His breathing quickened, his body trembling as the chime grew louder and louder. The bell echoed around him and it echoed inside of him.
Then—blackness.
Alma awoke with a sharp gasp, floating in the pond. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his lungs burning. He spun around frantically, looking for her.
But she was gone.
The woman. The chill. The bell. Gone without a trace.
Alma didn't hesitate. He clambered out of the water, threw on his clothes still damp from dew and sweat, and took off. Whatever he encountered, he didn't want to think about it. The sun was beginning to set behind the mountains. If he was going to make it to D.C. before nightfall, he had no time to lose.
He activated Eyes of Despair again, then sprinted eastward in a blur.
Exactly one minute later, Alma stood in Washington D.C.
He had arrived. But he hadn't planned for what came next. He thought about approaching the White House—but that would be suicide. He'd be riddled with bullets before taking a step past the gate.
Instead, he stopped a man who was jogging down the street.
"Excuse me, sir," Alma said, still slightly out of breath, "do you know where I can view images… from the sky?"
The jogger blinked. "Uh… you mean, like… satellite images, bruh?"
Alma nodded, though clearly confused. "Yes. Are those… images taken from the sky?"
"Duh. They're taken from space," the man said, scoffing.
"Right. Good. Where can I find them?"
"There's an NSEA building downtown. East Street Southwest."
"Great… Where is that at?"
---
Alma now stood before the towering glass doors of the NSEA building. Beside the entrance, four bold red letters glowed under the evening light: NSEA.
He stepped inside.
The interior was grand, quiet, and modern. Brown carpet stretched across the floor beneath his shoes. A prop astronaut suit stood upright beside a granite pillar, the two-tone marble behind it reflecting the overhead lights. The room was sterile, almost lifeless, save for the faint hum of air conditioning.
To his left was a reception desk. A woman in her thirties sat behind it, tapping on her computer.
Alma walked over and offered her a small, polite smile.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, carefully choosing his words. "Would it be possible to view… satellite images of a region in North Carolina?"
The woman raised a brow, clearly confused. "You know… you could just use your phone for that. And even if you want archived footage, it'll cost you. Twenty dollars."
Alma's expression shifted immediately. His smile faded. His heart sank.
He didn't have twenty dollars. He didn't even have one.
"I see. Then… pardon me." Alma turned and walked out quickly, trying to keep his face composed.
Outside, he paced back and forth on the sidewalk, anxiety building in his chest like pressure behind a dam.
"What am I going to do…?" he murmured, eyes scanning the sky as if hoping an answer would fall from it.
The fear returned—stronger than ever. The possibility that his home wasn't there. That it had never been there. That his parents, his best friend, every memory and moment he'd cherished… gone. That was the nagging fear.
What if he went to North Carolina, and there wasn't even a hint that his house had ever existed?
What if there never was a street?
That thought—that was his greatest fear. And yet, it was also the thing that pushed him forward. The need to know fought the need to run. Alma stood at a crossroads, and he didn't know which voice to follow.
As he walked, aimlessly and with heavy steps, a sharp sound broke through his thoughts: the muffled cry of a child. It was low and barely audible. Even the most sensitive to sound could have barely heard it.
Alma froze.
He turned his head, heart racing. Casting his gaze down an alley.
Without hesitation, Alma dashed toward the source.
There, in the dim shadows of the narrow alleyway, there was a girl—no older than nine—pinned against a brick wall by two grown men. Both of their pants were around their ankles. One of them pressed against the child, laughing as he reached for her again.
Alma's entire body tensed. His pupils dilated. His stomach twisted with rage and revulsion.
In an instant, he activated Eyes of Despair, and without a word, he raised his hand and fired Spear.
The projectile tore through both men, ripping their souls from their bodies in one violent, blazing motion. Their corpses dropped to the ground like puppets with their strings cut, no sign of any penetration. They had just simply dropped dead.
The little girl collapsed beside them.
Alma rushed to her side. She tried to crawl away, terrified, but she was too weak. Her face was bruised, her lip bloodied, and her limbs trembled. A few seconds later, she fainted away from Alma.
Gently, he lifted her and scooped up her pants from the ground. He left the alley with purpose, holding her close.
He found an abandoned apartment building nearby, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
He locked the door behind him. Closed any windows. Pulled the curtains tight.
He dressed the girl carefully, then sat beside her. Watching. Waiting.
Should he leave to search for food, or stay and protect her until she awoke? Alma didn't know.
But for the first time in a long time… he felt fear for someone other than himself.
---
Several hours had passed before the girl finally stirred from unconsciousness. Her eyes slowly fluttered open, greeted by a gentle warmth that soothed her skin and calmed her body. As her vision adjusted, she caught sight of a modest fire flickering inside a small, rusted pot placed nearby. The sight triggered her memory—everything that had happened came rushing back to her in vivid fragments. Panic seized her heart, and she bolted upright in alarm, every fiber of her being urging her to flee. Her mind screamed at her to run, to escape without hesitation and never look back.
But before she could act on that instinct, a firm hand grasped her wrist, halting her abruptly. It was Alma. She instantly began to resist, writhing and twisting her arm in a desperate attempt to break free from his hold. Her movements were frantic and full of terror, yet despite the urgency and strength behind her struggle, she chose not to scream.
"Hey, calm down. I'm not going to hurt you," Alma said in a soft, comforting voice that carried a tone of sincerity. His words, though gentle, only partially eased her fear. Her body remained tensed and alert.
Still unconvinced, the girl continued her efforts to escape, trying to pull away from his grasp. To her surprise, Alma suddenly released her wrist. The abrupt freedom caused her to stumble forward and fall face-first onto the cold, dusty floor. Ignoring the pain, she immediately sprang up and darted toward the door—but Alma was already standing there, his tall, imposing frame completely blocking her exit.
Without hesitation, she spun and sprinted toward the nearest window, but again, Alma was somehow already there, intercepting her escape with impossible speed. She repeated this frantic cycle several more times, each time finding her path blocked. Eventually, her body gave in to exhaustion, and she came to a stop, breathing heavily.
"Let me go," the girl said at last. Her voice was quiet and weak, barely above a whisper, as though speaking took every ounce of strength she had.
Alma slowly knelt before her, lowering himself to one knee so they were closer to eye level. The girl instinctively pulled her head back, wary of his sudden movement.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Alma repeated in a low, calm voice. But his words didn't sway her. She remained guarded and distrustful.
"I have something for you," he said gently. "Here."
He reached into his coat pocket, which immediately made the girl flinch, fearing what might come next. But instead of a weapon or anything harmful, Alma pulled out a bar of chocolate. Its wrapper was slightly crinkled but intact.
With deliberate care, Alma peeled back the wrapper, revealing the sweet treat inside. He held it out toward her, and the rich scent of cocoa reached her nose. Her nostrils flared, and her stomach let out a loud growl, betraying just how long it had been since she last ate.
"That's not poisoned... is it?" she asked nervously, her hunger warring with her fear. Her voice was uncertain, cautious.
"If it makes you feel better," Alma replied, holding the chocolate bar closer to his mouth, "I can take the first bite. That way, you'll know it's not tampered with."
He was just about to do so when, without warning, the girl snatched the bar from his hand and took a massive bite from it. Her eyes lit up instantly, and tears welled up in them as the sweet taste hit her tongue. A look of pure joy and overwhelming relief washed over her expression as she took another bite, and then another, wasting no time devouring the entire thing.
Alma watched her quietly, a faint smile forming on his face. Then he turned away, tending to the small fire in the pot. He used a charred stick to stir the glowing embers and burning pieces of wood inside, the end of the stick already blackened and ashy.
The little girl, her hunger now somewhat sated, carefully sat down across from him near the pot, stretching her small hands out toward the fire to absorb its warmth. The cold October air bit at her skin, and the fire, though small, was a welcome comfort.
A long silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Eventually, Alma broke it.
"So... what's your name?" he asked, still focused on the pot as he stirred the flickering fire within.
The girl didn't respond right away. She continued to hold her hands out to the flame, letting its heat warm her fingers. When Alma received no answer, he tried again, this time more directly.
"My name is Alma Daedulus Alastor," he said, his tone gentle and inviting. He turned to face her, pausing his movements. "What's yours?"
The girl hesitated, then finally spoke. "My name is…" she paused briefly, the moment lingering in uncertainty. "Jasmine," she said at last.
Alma heard the hesitation in her voice. There was fear behind her words, and a lack of trust that hadn't yet been earned. He didn't know whether the name she gave was her real one or not, but he didn't press her on it. Just having a name—any name—was more than enough for now.
"Nice to meet you, Jasmine," he said warmly, returning to the fire. "Do you mind telling me where your parents are?"
The question made Jasmine tense visibly. Her eyes widened slightly—just enough for Alma to notice.
"I… don't have parents," she replied shortly after, her voice almost emotionless.
Alma looked down into the pot, his expression darkening with a sadness that came from personal experience. He knew all too well what it meant to live without parents. But at her age? She had already endured more than he had at that stage of life.
"Oh… I'm sorry for asking," Alma said softly, his voice sincere.
Jasmine shook her head slowly. "It's okay. They… were never good parents anyway," she admitted, exhaling into her cupped hands before rubbing them together for warmth.
Alma recognized that this was a sensitive subject for her, and he decided to shift the conversation to something lighter.
"So… what kind of food do you like? Any favorite dishes or drinks?" he asked, doing his best to sound cheerful.
Though he knew he didn't have the tools, ingredients, or even the cleanliness required to prepare such meals—not with the state of the pot they had—he hoped the question might lift her spirits, even if just a little.
Jasmine's lips curved into a slight smile. "Yeah. Macaroni and cheese… and those purple drinks that come in the clear, plastic bottles."
Alma chuckled quietly, her answer warming his heart. It was such a childlike response, pure and unfiltered.
"Yeah? I like mac and cheese too. Definitely one of the best foods out there," he said, remembering the days when his own mother would make it for him.
Jasmine's smile grew as her own memories surfaced, recalling the rare times her mother had done the same.
Suddenly, Alma stood up, snapping Jasmine out of her daydream. The sudden movement startled her, making her tense once more.
"I'm going to head out and find some food for you," Alma said, walking toward the door.
But before he could open it, he felt a tug on his jacket. He looked down and saw Jasmine clutching it tightly, her eyes filled with worry and fear.
"Don't go, Alma…" she said, her voice trembling.
Alma understood immediately. She was terrified—whether it was the memory of those men from earlier, or the overwhelming fear of being abandoned yet again. Whatever it was, Alma knew he couldn't leave her alone—not now.
He gave a reassuring nod, then crouched down and offered her his back.
"Come on," he said, his tone playful, "you hopping on, or what?"
Jasmine blinked in confusion at first, then slowly nodded and climbed onto his back, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders.
Alma stood upright, opened the creaky door, and stepped out of the abandoned apartment room.
"Hold on tight!" he said with a grin.
Jasmine did exactly that, tightening her grip as Alma began leaping between the crumbling levels of the building, using the gaping holes in the ceilings as footholds. With a powerful vault, he reached the rooftop, then broke into a run, sprinting across the roof and leaping to the next building effortlessly. He continued, moving from rooftop to rooftop with incredible speed.
Jasmine burst into laughter, her fear forgotten in the thrill of the moment.
"Faster! Faster!" she cried out, playfully kicking at his sides as though urging a horse forward.
Alma laughed with her, not even feeling the light taps. "Alright, you asked for it!"
He surged forward, moving even faster than before, becoming nothing more than a blur in motion.
Jasmine let out a joyful yell as Alma carried her across the rooftops, the wind rushing past them, biting at her cheeks and arms. Goosebumps danced across her skin from the cold, but she didn't care. Not one bit. She was too lost in the exhilaration of the moment.
After several exhilarating minutes of rooftop running, Alma gradually slowed to a stop, his shoes skidding slightly across the rough concrete before coming to a full halt. Jasmine, still clinging tightly to his back, let out a disappointed groan.
"Awww," she pouted, resting her cheek against his shoulder.
Alma chuckled softly. "Sorry, kiddo. I don't want you catching a cold. Honestly, I probably should've stopped a while ago."
"I know…" she mumbled, clearly reluctant to agree. Her breath was warm against his neck as she sighed, her voice trailing off into the wind.
Alma glanced over his shoulder. "Hey, did you put your scarf on while I was running?"
---
They descended via a narrow, rusted staircase bolted to the side of a nearby building. The stairs creaked under Alma's weight, but he landed lightly on the concrete sidewalk below, Jasmine still piggybacked on his back. The cold wind swept between the buildings, rattling a few stray signs and tugging at the hem of his coat.
As they strolled along the cracked sidewalk, passing by a few indifferent pedestrians, Jasmine's voice piped up, curious and gentle.
"Where are we going?"
Alma shrugged with a faint, sheepish grin. "Honestly? I have no clue. Just… walking in a general direction. Hoping we find something. Preferably food."
Jasmine tilted her head, puzzled by the vagueness of his answer. "Wait—you mean you don't have any money?"
Alma stiffened slightly at the question, then exhaled in defeat. "Uh… yeah. I'm dirt poor." His voice dropped to a mutter, tinged with quiet embarrassment.
To his surprise, a small wallet was suddenly held out in front of his face. Alma blinked, took it hesitantly, and opened the flap. Inside, several crisp hundred-dollar bills were stacked neatly. His eyes widened in disbelief.
He turned to look at Jasmine, who simply nodded at him.
"There's no way I can use this," he said flatly, shaking his head. Not even questioning how a child her age had this much money. "This isn't mine."
"Yes, you can," Jasmine insisted. "Buy us some food. And buy yourself something warm. Don't you feel how cold it is?" Her voice was sincere, her brows drawn in confusion.
Alma paused, thinking. The truth was, since arriving here—wherever here truly was—he hadn't noticed the cold. Or the heat, for that matter. It simply never registered.
"I guess I do," he said slowly, "but it doesn't bother me. You can thank my father for that. That man could sit outside in 130-degree weather without sweating a drop."
Jasmine giggled, the sound light and full of life.
---
A few more minutes of walking brought them to a modest retail store. Alma approached the entrance and glanced behind at her.
"Stick by my side the entire time, okay?" he said firmly.
Jasmine nodded quickly. "Okay."
He gently set her down and grabbed a shopping cart. The automatic doors slid open with a quiet hiss, and they stepped into the brightly lit store. Warm air washed over them.
They spent the next three hours combing through aisles and shelves, picking out essentials and the occasional luxury. They collected pots and pans, disposable plates and silverware, toiletries like shampoo, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and floss, as well as washcloths and blankets. Alma made sure to grab an electric heater for their new space he had in mind.
In the food section, they selected packages of red meat, chicken, and fish, a variety of spices and dry goods, and of course—a box of macaroni and cheese. Jasmine lit up when she found it and placed it in the cart herself.
In the clothing section, Jasmine picked out a few warm outfits, choosing with care and a bit of excitement. Alma, however, struggled to find much that fit him properly in the men's section. Most of it was too short in the sleeves or too tight across the shoulders.
As they approached the checkout lanes, Jasmine's eyes caught on a stuffed toy in a nearby bin—a plush unicorn, decked out in pastel pink and purple with a shimmering horn.
Alma saw her expression and plucked it from the bin. "We'll get this too," he said, handing it to her.
She squealed with delight and hugged the toy to her chest, holding it close as they joined the long line. Only three cashiers were open despite a dozen registers sitting unused. Alma sighed in annoyance but said nothing. Jasmine stayed entertained with her new toy, bouncing it in her hands.
Eventually, it was their turn. Alma started placing the items onto the conveyor belt, watching as each product slid toward the cashier. The woman scanned them methodically while chatting with a coworker nearby.
After a few minutes, she finished ringing everything up.
"Your total comes to four hundred and seventy-eight dollars and twenty cents," the cashier said with a polite smile.
Alma flinched slightly at the number, then retrieved Jasmine's wallet. He pulled out five crisp hundred-dollar bills and handed them over.
The cashier paused to inspect the money, holding the bills up to the light. Alma rolled his eyes, but remained silent.
Once she confirmed they were genuine, she placed the bills into the register and returned change.
"Twenty-One dollars and eight cents is your change. Have a nice day, sir," she said, offering the bills and receipt.
"Thank you, ma'am. You have a good day too." Alma returned the change to Jasmine's wallet and pushed the cart toward the exit.
---
Outside, the cold wind hit them again.
"Alright, I'm going to run fast again," Alma said, looking down at Jasmine. "Make sure that scarf is wrapped around your face this time."
She giggled, then obediently pulled the scarf over her mouth and nose. Alma lifted her into the cart.
"Hold on!" he said with a grin before taking off.
He accelerated quickly, becoming a blur once more as he sprinted out of the parking lot, across sidewalks, and between streets, weaving effortlessly through the city. Jasmine squealed with laughter, the scarf barely muffling her joyful cries.
After several minutes, they arrived at a quiet apartment complex. Alma came to a sudden halt, lifting Jasmine out of the cart and gently setting her down.
He gathered all the bags into one arm and carried them with ease as they stepped through the main doors. They approached the front desk, where a receptionist sat reading a magazine.
"Hello, ma'am. Could we get a basic room?" Alma asked politely.
The woman glanced up. "Sure. That'll be four hundred dollars for the month."
Alma flinched again at the price but said nothing. He handed over the remaining cash from Jasmine's wallet and accepted the key to apartment 304.
Jasmine followed him to the elevator and pressed the call button. When the doors opened, they stepped inside. She pressed the button for the third floor.
The elevator ascended smoothly, then dinged softly as it reached their stop. They stepped out into the hallway and walked to their room.
Alma handed Jasmine the key, and she unlocked the door, pushing it open for him. He stepped inside and placed all the bags down in the kitchen.
The apartment was modest but clean. Not large by any means, but cozy enough. Alma nodded in approval.
He began unpacking, organizing the items into the kitchen cabinets and lining the bathroom with the toiletries. He arranged the beds, laying out the recently bought blankets for each of them.
He then walked into the bathroom, electric heater in hand. He plugged it into a nearby outlet and turned it to the highest setting, shutting the door behind him to trap the heat.
In the kitchen, Alma unwrapped a large silver pot—nonstick, supposedly—and placed it on the stovetop. He opened the box of macaroni and poured it in, then added water from the tap.
"Let's see…" he muttered, flipping the box over to read the instructions. "Boil water first. Then add pasta... Right, like this?"
---
It took a little while, but soon the scent of cheesy pasta filled the apartment. Alma prepared a bowl and brought it into the dining area.
There, he found Jasmine sitting at the table, happily bouncing the unicorn toy in her lap, a smile on her face as warm as the apartment's new heater.
Alma gently placed the steaming bowl of mac and cheese down on the table in front of Jasmine, a soft smile forming on his face as he looked at her. "You really love that toy, don't you?" he asked warmly, watching her hug the stuffed pony tight.
Jasmine nodded eagerly, her smile still bright, but then reluctantly set the plush unicorn down on the table so she could begin eating.
Alma took the seat across from her, silently observing as she took her first few bites. After a moment, he stood up and wandered over to the small coffee table in the living area. He picked up the remote control, turned on the television, and returned to his seat, flipping through the available channels aimlessly. Nothing on the screen seemed remotely interesting, and truthfully, Alma had no idea what he was even looking for. That's when something unexpected caught his attention—a news broadcast.
On the screen, a suited anchorman spoke with a grave tone:
"Several cities, including the previously unreachable Lyman, have been successfully secured. Recent satellite footage and aerial images captured by unmanned aircraft reveal what appears to be a humanoid entity utterly destroying the Beasts of Ruin. Both the moth and molerat types—creatures previously classified at Monarch-level threat—were completely annihilated in a single, devastating attack. That's right, folks: one single blow."
The newsman's voice took on a tone of disbelief.
"At this time, authorities remain uncertain about the identity or nature of the humanoid. Citizens located near the cities of Henry, Torrington, Scottsbluff, and Lyman, Nebraska, are being strongly urged to remain indoors and to only venture outside if absolutely necessary."
The anchorman continued, his eyes serious:
"Both the President and the military have been briefed, as well as the current Monarchs. If anyone sees a figure estimated to be six feet five inches or taller and resembling a humanoid, the advised response is simple: run. Do not engage. Just run."
"This is Darly Warren reporting for Channel Ninety-Four News. We now return to your regularly scheduled programming."
The broadcast cut to the weather forecast, where a different man was discussing the expected temperatures for tomorrow.
Alma stared at the screen, concerned, his eyes slightly narrowed. The news unsettled him, but when he glanced over at Jasmine, she was still happily eating her mac and cheese, completely unbothered by the report and unaware that he was the one who did it. Deciding to forget about what he just heard, he changed the channel again and eventually settled on a colorful kids' cartoon, leaving it on for Jasmine.
Time passed quietly. After a few more minutes, Jasmine finished her food and leaned back in her chair to rest. Alma stood, took her empty bowl, and washed the dishes in the sink before settling down on the couch. Jasmine soon joined him, cuddling up close as they watched the cartoon together. They laughed, smiled, and genuinely enjoyed the moment. Time slipped by, and before they knew it, the clock read 10 p.m.
"Woah, that heater's been running for a lot longer than it should've," Alma muttered. "You need a bath, and I most definitely do, so come on, up you go."
He gently lifted Jasmine into his arms, though she made a face of protest. Still, she knew she had to shower. Alma watched as she grabbed her fresh clothes and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. He chuckled softly and sat back down on the couch, feeling the weariness begin to catch up with him.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Alma was experiencing a rare and precious thing—peace. Peace of his body. And peace of his mind. His body relaxed, his eyes grew heavy, and soon, without even realizing it, he drifted off.
Suddenly, Alma found himself somewhere surreal. He was standing in a blindingly white expanse, devoid of any shadows, shapes, or structure. There were no boundaries, no visible floor or ceiling—just endless whiteness in every direction. For all he knew, it stretched on infinitely. Then he heard it again—that bell, chiming in the distance. Unlike before, it no longer rang inside his head but echoed around him, reverberating through the air. Yet now, it sounded different. More eerie. More pronounced. As if it weren't just a sound, but... something inevitable. He was about to turn around, disoriented, when a familiar voice gently pulled him back to reality.
"Alma?" Jasmine's voice woke him.
"Huh? Oh, you're done already?" Alma asked, still half-asleep. He rubbed his eyes and caught a whiff of her freshly washed hair. "Mmm… strawberry shampoo?"
Jasmine gave him a playful pout. "Wow. You didn't even check on me. What if I got kidnapped in the middle of my shower?"
Alma blinked, still groggy. "Oh—sorry. But... you're okay, right? So… that counts for something?" he said awkwardly, then yawned.
Jasmine sighed but smiled faintly. "I guess… but now it's your turn. It's almost ten-thirty. You better take a shower before it gets too late."
"Yeah, you're right," Alma said with another yawn, stretching as he stood. "The faster I get cleaned up, the faster I can sleep."
He picked up a clean set of pajamas and his new bottle of shampoo, then walked into the bathroom. He turned on the hot water and let out a long, satisfied sigh as the warmth enveloped him. It had been far too long since he'd felt the comfort of a real shower. As the water ran over him, his mind drifted back to a simpler time—back when the biggest thing he had to worry about was passing his end-of-grade test.
A wistful smile tugged at his lips, though it faded quickly as he remembered what happened after that day.
Alma took his time in the shower, savoring every moment. After about thirty minutes, he finally stepped out, feeling refreshed and clean. He dried off, slipped into his comfortable pajamas, and walked back into the living room.
There he found Jasmine once again playing with her plush pony, talking softly to it as if it were alive. Watching her, Alma couldn't help but smile. It reminded him of when he was a child—not playing with toys, exactly, but inventing things, lost in his own little world.
"Those were the days…" he murmured, lowering himself beside her on the couch.
With mock offense, Alma said, "Wow! You didn't even check on me?"
Jasmine raised her brows playfully. "Was I supposed to?"
Feigning dramatic shock, Alma gasped and pressed a hand to his chest. "How dare you, Missy!"
He lunged toward her and began tickling her sides, making her erupt in uncontrollable laughter. Her legs kicked in the air as she tried to squirm away.
"Stop! Stop! I'm sorry! Please!" she cried in between giggles.
Alma eventually relented, letting her catch her breath. "That's what you get for breaking my heart," he teased, smiling.
"I'm sorry," Jasmine said softly, this time with sincerity.
Alma gently patted her head. "It was just a joke. You didn't break my heart."
She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a brief moment. And in that moment, Alma felt it—something deeper than affection. A bond. He felt like a father with his own daughter. In truth, that's what she had become to him. He loved her with that same fierce, protective love, and he only hoped she could come to love him in return. He wanted to give her something better than what her real parents ever could—a home, safety, warmth.
They continued watching television together until the clock struck midnight. Then, Alma turned off the TV and stood.
"Alright, bedtime," he said, lifting Jasmine into his arms once again. He carried her to the bathroom, and together they brushed their teeth and flossed. Afterward, he picked her back up, her unicorn clutched tight in her hands.
Just as he was about to place her in her own bed, she clung tightly to his arm.
"Can I sleep with you?" she asked quietly. "I'm scared of the dark… and of sleeping alone. What if one of those bad men comes after me?"
Her grip tightened, her voice trembling with fear.
"Of course," Alma said gently. "You can sleep with me."
Jasmine slowly let go and watched as Alma grabbed a blanket and some pillows, bringing them to the bed. He tucked her in and climbed in beside her.
"Can we say a prayer?" Jasmine asked suddenly, catching Alma off guard.
His eyes widened slightly. Were her parents religious?
"Are you sure?" he asked, cautious. "I don't want this to bring up any painful memories for you."
Jasmine looked confused at first, then realization dawned on her face. "Oh… no. My parents weren't Christians. Not at all. Actually, I turned to God after everything happened. I even bought a Bible."
Alma blinked, genuinely surprised—and deeply moved. A slow smile formed on his lips. "That's amazing. Alright, let's pray."
Both of them closed their eyes and clasped their hands together.
Jasmine began, her voice steady at first:
"Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for letting us wake up to see another day, and for blessing us to live to sleep another night. We are truly grateful for everything you've given us—the food, the shelter, and the safety. Thank you for the ability to buy what we needed today. Please, Lord, continue to guide us, protect us, and keep us safe from all evil that may unknowingly come our way. Bless our enemies. Bless those who've hurt us. And bless those who plan to hurt us in the future. We believe in You, we have faith in You, and we love You. In Your Holy Name, amen."
By the time she finished, her voice was beginning to break, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. Alma was proud of her.
He wiped her tears gently and leaned over to turn off the lamp beside the bed. He pulled the blanket up over them, and Jasmine immediately snuggled close, burying her head against his chest.
Alma wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes, feeling a peace even deeper than before—one that reached into the core of who he was.
Both of them fell into a peaceful slumber, using each other as a source of comfort.