Han wasn't used to waking up slow. Usually, he'd pop an eye open and, if he was lucky enough not to see trouble, roll out of whatever grimy blanket or recess of shadow he'd found the night before. The city demanded that. Hesitation made you an easy mark.This morning was strange. The church bell a few blocks away hadn't chimed yet, but Han was already awake. More accurately, something had kept him half-awake all night, and it wasn't just the usual hunger gnawing at his belly.He glanced at his wrist. The spot where the dog had bitten him—even thinking about it made his skin crawl—was a little swollen and still tinged with that weird bluish glow. How long had it been since he'd had a proper night's sleep? Too long, maybe. But nothing in his memory compared to whatever had happened yesterday.With a groan, Han sat up and brushed leaves off his hoodie. His backpack—his whole world, really—sat safely zipped against his side. He checked it, just in case: notebook, pen, half a granola bar, a battered water bottle with just enough left to wet his lips, and a crumpled receipt for shoes he'd never bought. He fingered the edges of the notebook. The sketches from last night—mismatched eyes, odd symbols—looked even more unreal in daylight.As Han rose, the ache in his arm sharpened. Not a warning kind of sting, but something else—alive, pulsing, as if the bite had a mind of its own.He pressed his palm over the mark. "It's just a bite," he muttered. "Just a stray. Get over it."With the city slowly brightening, Han shuffled toward the junkyard. He was grateful for the routine, even if the work was dirty, and he knew well enough that Mr. Bell sometimes paid him less than he was worth. But a little was better than nothing.On the way, he found himself pausing at every alley, scanning for the dog. A foolish part of him hoped it would be there—watching, waiting, maybe to give him a clue as to why his world was suddenly upside down.At the junkyard gate, Han saw Bell already bustling around, sorting scrap into piles, cigarette dangling dangerously close to a heap of oily rags."Morning," Han said, keeping his head down.Bell snorted. "You're late.""Didn't sleep much," Han replied, clutching his wrist. He tried to hide the glow, but Bell was more interested in his own business."Sleep when you're dead. What's wrong with your arm?"Han shrugged. "Just got scratched last night, that's all."Bell grunted. "If you turn rabid, I'm tossing you over the fence. Get to work."Han smiled despite himself. He headed for the old car frames, crawling and picking out copper wire and bits of metal. There was a rhythm to it—a simple sort of peace that made him forget, at least for a few minutes, about the weirdness in his wrist and the memory of the system's message.Then it came. Not a voice, but a jolt deep in his bones, like nerves dancing under his skin.Han jerked as if someone had whispered in his ear. The glowing blue text hung before his eyes, shimmering faintly. He nearly dropped the wrench he'd been using.He blinked, squinting as if that might drive away the hallucination. But the words didn't leave. It was as if they'd printed themselves into his vision. Only when he steadied his breath did it finally vanish, but the message echoed in his head.Face what? What darkness? Han forced himself back to work, but the uneasy itch at his wrist was relentless. He had to do something, anything, to understand.He retreated to the far side of the junkyard, found a patch of wildflowers growing through the fence, and flopped down. His notebook came out, and he began to draw, moving the pen furiously over the page: the dog, the bite, the words swirling around his hand, the eyes—one gold, one silver.Suddenly, there was a rustle. Han looked up. The dog stood on the other side of the junkyard fence, head tilted, eyes glowing in the shade.Han felt his bruised heart pound. He crawled through the grass and weeds, nerves jangling, not sure what he hoped for. The dog didn't run. Instead, it watched as Han crept close, dropped to his haunches, and whispered, "You again. Did you do this to me?"The animal cocked its head, and—for a moment—Han felt an understanding, the way you sometimes know when someone in the dark is looking at you.He held out his hand. The dog moved forward, sniffed his wrist, then gently pressed its nose to the glowing mark. Heat surged through Han's arm, not painful, but shocking—like being seen after being invisible for too long.The dog stepped back. Circles of light blossomed across Han's palm, forming new symbols and a single word that pulsed bright:LOOK.Han shuddered. He swore he heard a voice—his mother's, soft and sad—"Find us, Han." But when he blinked, the dog had vanished, slipping through a break in the fence as if it were made of fog.Han rose slowly, heart beating out of time, his thoughts a storm. What the hell was happening? Why him? He stumbled back toward the work area, rubbing at his palm. If Mr. Bell saw the glow, he didn't comment, just tossed Han a half-wrapped sandwich at lunch and told him to eat.The day wore on, every sound sharper. Han jumped at the cry of seagulls, flinched at the clang of metal. Even the sound of his own breathing seemed loud. Everyone else in the junkyard was living their normal lives, their normal routines. Only he was carrying around this invisible, impossible weight.When his shift was over, Han let his feet wander, letting the city swallow him up. He followed alleys he'd never noticed, signs that meant nothing one day and everything the next. There were new faces everywhere, but sometimes, he spotted a figure in the corner of his eye. Too tall to be the dog, too fleeting to be the past. Han tried not to imagine shadows with gold and silver eyes following his steps.At sunset, Han found himself along the riverbank, where willow trees dipped their skinny fingers into the water. The place was quiet, almost peaceful. He sat on the damp earth, breathing in mud, rain, and the faint, sour trace of petrol.He stared at the bite on his wrist, the light now pulsing with the rhythm of his heart. He remembered the message—face the darkness—or run forever.Han let his eyes close, shoulders shaking. Wasn't that what he'd been doing for years? Running from memories, from grief, from the truth of being so utterly alone. Parents gone, no trail, only loss.He thought of the dog's warmth, the symbols burning into his skin, the whisper to look deeper.The air grew chill. Han huddled in his jacket as the last streaks of pink faded from the sky. He took out his notebook, opened to a blank page, and wrote:"Something is changing. I'm scared. But I'm ready. Maybe for the first time."He pressed the pencil to his wrist, tracing the mark, feeling the beat of something new growing there. The story of Han Bond wasn't lost—it was just beginning, quiet as a breath, bright as hope.And somewhere beyond the city, unseen by anyone else, two mismatched eyes watched him, patient and knowing, waiting for him to choose the light.
