Avery stepped off the curb and onto the sidewalk, letting the city's rhythm guide him home. Cars passed. Kids laughed. A distant L train rattled overhead.
The streets were alive with an eclectic mix of humanity. Businessmen sped past, their polished shoes clicking against the pavement, rolling suitcases trailing behind them like obedient pets. Artists and dreamers lingered on corners, sketchbooks under their arms, faces smudged with paint, their presence adding bursts of color to the city's muted palette. And then there were people like Avery—walkers—those who preferred the rhythm of the streets over the stillness of a car, who found comfort in motion and meaning in the anonymity of a crowd.
In those moments, he felt like anyone else. A face among millions. Invisible. Free.
But even in that freedom, the stares found him.
Some curious. Others cautious. A few outright hostile.
As he made his way through neighborhoods on the path toward Chinatown, Avery felt them. Felt how the air changed when eyes lingered too long on his brown skin or almond-shaped eyes. Chicago liked to call itself a melting pot, but Avery knew better. Some parts still hadn't melted. Pockets where the old guard clung to even older ideas. Where color meant caution. Where cops stopped you for walking too slow, talking too loud, or breathing the wrong way.
It wasn't always safe being who he was.
Not Black. Not Asian. But both. And neither. Too light for one. Too dark for the other.
But Avery had long since learned how to disarm those with a look or silence. And for the most part, he had been accepted. Maybe not completely. But enough.
Enough to feel something like home.
That feeling only grew stronger as he approached his mother's restaurant, nestled beneath glowing red lanterns that bobbed gently in the summer breeze. Its gold-trimmed awning read Dragon Chef, flanked by takeout menus pinned on the windows and the faint hum of laughter inside. The scent of soy and sesame hit his nose before he even reached the door.
The closer he got, the lighter he felt.
He passed the convenience store first. Travis, Tito's uncle, stood out front with a bucket of soapy water and a white rag, wiping the windows like they were priceless glass.
"How's ya' pops been, kid?" he asked, patting Avery's shoulder with a grin.
Travis had that same wild energy as his nephew. They shared similar cornrows, thick brows, and that same easy way of talking that made you want to stay a little longer.
Avery smiled. "Workin' like usual, Uncle T."
Travis shook his head. "Tell that man to get his stubborn ass back over here. Tell him I got a bottle with his name on it."
Avery gave a half-shrug. "He misses my mom. That's why he stays over there."
Travis's expression faltered for a second. "Yeah... yeah, that hits home. They were good for each other. Real good." He wiped the rag against his shirt. "Tell him the door's open. And swing by sometime with Tito, will you? Boy keeps sayin' you're too busy to kick it."
"I told him I've been busy," Avery smirked and took a step back. "Later, T."
As always, he'd tell his dad, and as always, his dad would answer the same way:
"We'll drink when the restaurant's closed."
Except the restaurant never closed.
And because of that, Avery never caught a break.
He took the long route into Chinatown Plaza, slipping down the quieter alleys behind the main drag. Crowds made him nervous. Too many people. Too many chances to slip up.
Even in summer, the place was packed. Souvenir bags swung from hands. Waitlists spilled onto sidewalks. Restaurant windows fogged from the heat of the kitchen inside. Dragon Chef, like always, had a line.
When Avery pushed open the front door, the chime above it jingled with a soft ring. The air was thick with garlic and fried rice. His stomach growled like it had just remembered it existed.
A corner TV declared, "Perfect clear skies all week!" and he nearly rolled his eyes.
We'll see.
Old women greeted him from their tables, all smiles and soft voices. The same women who'd known him since before he could talk. They spoke in affectionate tones, patted his arm when he passed, slipped him candies wrapped in gold foil. Some of them called him baobei. He didn't mind. In here, he wasn't strange. Just Avery.
"Avery."
He turned and saw his dad—Nathaneil—with flour on his hands and joy on his face. He waved him toward the back.
Avery ducked behind the counter and entered the kitchen. And before he could say a word, his father engulfed him in a hug. A tight one. The kind of hug that made you feel how close things could've gone the other way.
Nathaneil held him a second longer than usual before pulling back and ruffling his curls.
"I'm proud of ya'. You never gotta worry about that damn school again."
Avery chuckled and stepped away. "Still gotta graduate. Those tests were never that hard anyway."
His dad snorted. "Charlie used to say the same thing."
They shared a quiet look.
Avery glanced at the two kitchen workers, then lowered his voice. "Someone got caught today. The kid who sat behind me. They took him. Everyone watched."
Nathaneil sighed, resting a hand on the metal counter. "Don't concern yourself with them, Avery. You passed. That's what matters."
He was right.
Didn't make it easier to swallow.
"What's the weather looking like?" Nathaneil asked, already reaching for a spatula.
"Sunny all week," Avery muttered.
His dad nodded. "Keep it that way and—"
"Stay low," Avery finished, tone dry.
They'd said it so many times it was practically scripture.
"Alright. Now come help me with these orders. We've got dinner rush in a few hours."
Stay low. Stay outta trouble. Mind your business.
If Avery had a quarter for every time he heard that, he'd own the damn restaurant by now.
He wasn't even sure what the full extent of his power was, only that when his emotions swelled too far, the weather followed suit.
A walking forecast.
Thunderstorms. Hail. Snow in July. The scientists called it climate change.
If only they knew.
The truth was... he didn't know how to control it. Not completely. Not like Charlie did.
So he learned to lie. With his face. With his voice. With everything. A calm mask over the chaos inside. His whole life was performance.
And so far, it had worked.
No one suspected a thing.
But as Avery stood there, wiping his hands on a towel, helping prepare the night's ingredients, a single thought burned in the back of his mind:
How much longer can I keep this up?
Pretending to be something he wasn't.
A human.