The Texas sun sank low, bleeding red across the horizon like a warning sign no one understood. In the quiet suburb of Denton, lights flickered on across neat little streets, but inside one run-down garage, two boys prepared to break the laws of time itself.
Mike ran a hand through his thick black hair, his fingers stained with grease and ash. "We've tried this a thousand times," he muttered, pacing between scattered blueprints and burned-out computer screens. "But this time… we push it harder."
Jack sat at the dining table they'd dragged in weeks ago, sipping flat soda and staring at the massive ring in front of them—their machine. It dominated the space, twelve feet high, dozens of thick power cables coiled like snakes across the floor, blinking lights pulsing like veins. A Frankenstein of parts they'd scavenged, stolen, or built, its center was an empty void waiting to be filled with something dangerous.
"You want to overpower it?" Jack asked, raising an eyebrow. "Last time we tried that, the neighbor's cat lost all its hair."
Mike smirked. "Yeah, but the math adds up. If we spike the core with a surge and hold it for five seconds, the fusion field might collapse in on itself just long enough to open a jump point."
"And what if it doesn't?"
"Then we die in a fireball and make history."
Jack groaned. "Hell of a backup plan."
They stood together, side by side, the way they always had since they were kids. Dreamers. Idiots. Brothers not by blood but by obsession. For Mike, this wasn't just about science. It was about escaping. He'd always wanted to vanish from this place, from the slow death of small-town life. The future held answers. Freedom. Power.
Jack watched his friend flick the last few switches. "Alright," he said quietly. "Let's do it."
The garage darkened as the machine powered up. Lights blinked erratically. The ring hummed, then groaned. The air grew heavy, thick like molasses. A low-pitched sound—like a deep whale song—rattled the walls.
Electricity crackled.
The machine roared.
Something shifted.
Suddenly, the core lit up—really lit up. A blinding sphere of white-blue light began to form in the center of the ring, sucking the air inward. Jack stumbled back. Mike stood firm, mesmerized.
"We did it," he whispered. "Oh my god… we did it."
But the moment shattered.
Sparks exploded from the wires. The floor vibrated. Alarms screamed from the control panels. One screen cracked. Then another.
"Mike!" Jack yelled. "It's overloading!"
"We hold it five more seconds!"
"No—we have to shut it down!"
Jack ran to the side console and reached out—but as soon as his fingers brushed the surface, the machine pulsed violently. A tendril of raw energy lashed out, wrapping around his arm like lightning.
He screamed.
Mike lunged forward, shoving Jack back with all his strength—just as the core collapsed in on itself and exploded outward.
Mike took the full force of the blast.
A burst of fire. A shockwave that shattered every window on the block. A scream that never had time to finish.
The explosion ripped through the neighborhood like a tidal wave of death. Houses crumbled. Streets buckled. Flames rose high into the night.
A girl named Ellie stood in her living room, holding up a crayon drawing to show her mom—a picture of a sun and a blue dog. In the next instant, a wall of fire engulfed them both. Their screams were lost beneath the roar of destruction.
The government would later say it was a bomb. A weapon test. Maybe even a terror attack.
They never found the truth.
Hours later, silence returned to the ruins.
The smoke hung low and black, curling over what was left of the town. Sirens wailed in the distance, then grew louder, then closer. Emergency lights painted the wreckage red and blue.
And from the ashes, Jack stirred.
He coughed violently, his chest caked in soot, his eyes bloodshot and wide. He staggered to his feet, stumbling past broken glass and splintered beams.
"Mike…" he rasped. "Mike was in there… Mike…"
Police officers swarmed the site. A paramedic grabbed him, guiding him gently to the ground.
"Sir, you're okay now. You're safe."
"No… no, Mike—he was there!" Jack shouted, panic rising. "He pushed me—he saved me! You don't understand, he was in there!"
"You're the only survivor we found," the paramedic said quietly. "I'm sorry."
"No, you're wrong! He—he's—he—" Jack coughed again, then collapsed as they lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him to the ambulance. He thrashed weakly as they loaded him in, still whispering Mike's name.
High above them, on the roof of a burned-out building, something moved.
A figure stood at the edge of the wreckage—barely visible, more shadow than man. His body shimmered like smoke, darkness clinging to his form. His clothes were blackened rags, but his eyes glowed faintly—two orbs of white-blue light, flickering like stars.
Mike.
Or what was left of him.
He stood there silently, watching the chaos below. Fire trucks. News vans. Police. Jack.
He remembered it all—the blast, the pain, the light. But now he felt... different. The world was slower, quieter, like he existed slightly beside it. Like time bent around him. He could see the future and past flickering in and out like static.
He was no longer bound by this world's rules.
He was untethered.
The wind shifted around him as if the night itself bent to his presence. He took one step back into the shadows, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished—leaving behind only a whisper in the smoke and a trail of scorched footprints on the roof.
Jack looked up just in time to see the dark figure dissolve into the night—but when he blinked, it was gone.
He stared, trembling, unsure if it was real or his traumatized brain playing tricks.
"Mike…?"
The paramedic touched his shoulder. "What did you say?"
Jack turned back, his voice hoarse and low.
"Nothing…"
They closed the ambulance doors behind him, and the van pulled away from the ruin.
Far behind them, the wind howled softly over the bones of a shattered town.
And in the darkness, something new had been born.
Something no one could stop.