[DREAM – BROOKLYN]

  They sat on the fire escape, sneakers tapping the railing. City haze floating in the air like lazy ghosts.

  “Bro, I swear—next week. I just need it for rent.”

  Jarrell didn’t even blink. He handed over the envelope.

  “I got you. Just don’t make me chase you.”

  They dapped up. Real tight. Years of trust behind it.

  But when Rell called two weeks later?

  Voicemail.

  When he showed up to the apartment?

  Gone.

  Blocked. Ghosted.

  Just like that.

  ---

  He jolts awake.

  Covered in sweat. Hand halfway reaching for a name he won’t say.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  [THOUGHTS]

  That was Dre. My boy.

  I thought he was real.

  He sits up under a rock shelf, jungle dim and foggy.

  [THOUGHTS]

  This place… same feeling.

  Like you can't trust anything.

  ---

  A chill rolls in.

  Not wind.

  Not natural.

  Behind him, the spirit flickers again — soft light, not quite formed.

  Jarrell turns.

  It hovers — shape barely holding. Arms? Maybe. Face? Almost.

  It points.

  Not with hands — with intention.

  [THOUGHTS]

  Always warning. Never helping.

  He frowns.

  [SPEAKS]

  “…Don’t stare. Say any..thing.”

  The spirit pulses — almost sad.

  [SPEAKS]

  “STOP—LOOK LIKE BROKEN.”

  The spirit lingers.

  Jarrell stands.

  His chest tightens.

  His eyes narrow.

  [SPEAKS]

  “What ..am I?”

  ---

  The spirit flickers once more.

  Still silent.

  Jarrell’s hands clench.

  Then—

  FWOOM.

  Fire bursts from his palms.

  His eyes widen.

  Rocks near his feet crack open with glowing veins — spikes of adamant crystal jut from the earth around him.

  The spirit jolts backward — flickering like a flame in the wind.

  [THOUGHTS]

  That… wasn’t from me.

  Or maybe it was.

  Another burst fires out of his shoulder. Sparks. Heat. Crystal shards split a nearby log in half.

  He screams.

  Not from pain.

  From everything.

  [THOUGHTS]

  I killed. I bled. I burned. I broke.

  And I don’t even know who’s under this skin anymore.

  ---

  Later.

  He stares into a still pond — too clean for the jungle.

  His reflection looks back.

  Eyes gold.

  Skin scarred.

  Dreads matted and heavy.

  He doesn’t recognize the face.

  [THOUGHTS]

  This world’s changing me.

  And I don’t know if I can come back from it.

  The spirit doesn’t return that night.

  He doesn’t call for it.

  He just stares at himself.

  As something inside begins to crack.