Avaros City hums like a live wire under a storm sky—all restless energy and barely contained chaos. Neon signs flicker against steel-and-glass towers, their reflections swimming in rain-slick streets. The air tastes like exhaust as sirens wail in the distance, a constant, dissonant choir. People move fast here—shoulders hunched, eyes down, as if the weight of the sky might crush them if they linger too long.

But everyone avoids looking east.

Nurikabe.

It isn't just a wall. It's a presence that cuts the horizon in half. Its surface—smooth as a knife's edge, dark as a closed eye—defies the weather, the years, and the laws of physics. No cracks. No seams. Just endless, silent judgment.

And yet, the wall draws them. Immigrants, scholars, and dreamers flock to Avaros from beyond the city to stand in its looming shadow, compelled by an indescribable allure. They come to marvel at its presence, seek answers to its mystery, or perhaps simply feel the weight of something so ancient and unknowable. But the city keeps its distance. Avaros huddles a mile back, a child afraid of its mother's shadow, while beyond sprawl half-remembered smaller towns and cities where memories fray like old film. What lies beyond those remains vague, a patchwork of forgotten landscapes and shadowy recollections, as if the further one travels from Nurikabe, the less certain they become of where they've been...

And the ones who ask too many questions?

They vanish.

No bodies. No notes. Just gone...

Even so, Avaros endures—a place of progress and mystery, where the wall remains both an attraction and an omen. It looms not just over the skyline but over the hearts of those who live in its shadow, an indomitable reminder of questions best left unasked.

... ...

Midnight in Avaros bleeds electric blue and sodium orange across wet pavement. A kid— a few locs tied back—slouches on a bench that's seen better decades. His knee won't stop bouncing. Tap-tap-tap against cracked concrete, keeping time with some internal rhythm only he hears.

The joint between his fingers glows cherry-red as he inhales, the paper crackling. For three perfect seconds, the world softens at the edges. Then he exhales, watching smoke twist into the city's grimy halo.

"Shitty weed," he mutters, but takes another drag anyway.

Above him, the stars fight their losing battle against light pollution. Some burn steady. Others flicker—here, gone, here again. Just like the light back in—

A bottle shatters two blocks over. Laughter follows, too sharp at this hour. The kid's body jolts out of habit to run before he catches himself. Chill. Just some oldies blowing off steam.

The wind shifts, carrying a cocktail of stenches—thick diesel exhaust and the unmistakable greasy aroma wafting from Big Sal's all-night diner where they fry everything in the same rancid oil. But beneath it all lingers a tang like licking a live battery, making the back of his teeth ache.

A liquor store sign spits pink static. To his right, shadows move wrong between the trees.

The kid doesn't turn his head. Just takes another slow drag, eyes tracking the figures in his periphery. Cops? Gang scouts? Worse?

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Just a sec.

The joint's down to the almost down to the filter now.

"Shoulda brought two," he tells the pigeons. They don't argue.

Somewhere beyond the park's iron fence, a train screeches on ancient tracks. The sound sets his teeth on edge. Or maybe that's the way the shadows by the oak tree just rippled without wind.

Footsteps come slow—crunch-crunch on gravel—too familiar to mistake. The kid doesn't look up, just takes another drag, letting the smoke curl from his nostrils like a dragon sighing.

"Yo, Obinai. You good?"

Darren's voice is all easy confidence, the kind that slides into spaces without asking. He steps under the streetlamp's flicker, backlit for a second like some low-budget action hero—hoodie frayed at the cuffs, jeans that've seen too many skateboard wrecks, that stupid backwards cap he's worn since middle school. The one with the grease stain on the brim Obinai's never pointed out.

"Peachy," Obinai mutters, eyes tracking the unmoving clouds that nearly block the polluted sky. Like always. Like clockwork. Darren and his fucking questions.

The bench groans as Darren flops down, close enough that their shoulders bump. He smells like cheap body spray and the onion rings he definitely scarfed at Sal's. "Big brain still spinning over that test, huh?" He nudges Obinai's ribs with a bony elbow. "Bro, it's done. Like roll credits' done."

Obinai flicks ash harder than necessary. "Not thinking about it."

"Liar." Darren grins. "You got that look—" He mimics Obi's furrowed brow, chin on his fist like the Thinker statue, if the Thinker mainlined caffeine. "—like you're trying to figure out the meaning of life."

A garbage truck beeps three blocks over. The wind carries the stink of rotting takeout containers.

"Maybe I am," Obi mumbles, just to be contrary.

Darren barks a laugh, slapping his knee. "Shit, save some genius for the rest of us."

Obinai finally gives Darren a slight glance. He's always does this. Like he's got everything figured out. Like saying it out loud makes it less heavy. But Darren's grin is infectious, disarming. Against his better judgment, Obinai lets out a faint chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah. It's whatever."

Darren leans back, stretching his arms along the top of the bench like he owns the place. "Good. 'Cause I'd hate to see my boy losing sleep over something dumb."

Obinai rolls his eyes but can't help the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Darren... never drops anything. But maybe that's not so bad.

Darren, with his short, curly hair barely visible beneath his cap, leans in with that same mischievous grin he always wears, like he's constantly on the verge of saying something that'll make you laugh—or groan. "Yo, got a spare one?" he asks, gesturing lazily to Obinai's joint.

Obinai wordlessly reaches into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the crumpled packet before fishing out a slightly bent joint. He hands it to Darren with a flick of his wrist. Darren waits expectantly, leaning forward, the joint pinched loosely between his lips.

Obinai pulls out his lighter, the metal glinting briefly under the wavering streetlight. With a soft click, a tiny flame bursts to life. He cups his hand around it, shielding it from the faint breeze as he brings it close to Darren's face. Darren tilts his head slightly, his grin never fading, as the ember catches and begins to glow. Obinai lingers for a second longer than necessary, watching the flame flicker in Darren's eyes before snapping the lighter shut and leaning back, his fingers absently spinning it in his hand.

"Even so... I get it, man," Darren starts, tapping ash off the joint, "Ms. Patterson's got a sixth sense for when I'm about to doze off. Bitch materializes behind me like a fucking ghost."

Obinai's about to reply when—

Scuff-scuff-THUD.

"Fuck!"

They don't even need to look.

Angel stumbles into the light, all elbows and knees, his oversized black hoodie swallowing him whole. He's got that one chipped black nail polish on his thumb—always the left one—and his hair's in his face again despite the three hair ties on his wrist.

"Speak of the devil," Darren crows, spreading his arms. "Oh clumsy one arrives!"

Angel flips him off with the hand not currently rubbing his shin. "I hate gravel. I hate benches. I hate—" His eyes land on the joint. "—how you never wait for me to spark up."

Obinai watches the way Angel's fingers twitch toward his jacket pocket—where he definitely keeps that battered copy of some book he thinks nobody's notices him reading—before shoving them in his armpits instead. Classic Angel. All that chaotic energy with nowhere to put it.

"Relax, Picasso," Darren says, passing the joint. "We saved you the worst part."

Angel takes it like it's a live grenade, inhaling sharply. "Ugh. Reggie's ditch weed again?"

"It's economical," Darren says, pressing a hand to his chest like he's wounded.

Obinai stretches his legs out, sneakers scraping concrete. "Was telling Darren—can't get the info for chem to stick in my head for shit."

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"Okay, at least it's mainly that..." Darren trails off with a snort, then turns to Angel with a shit-eating grin. "But this dude can't even do basic algebra? For real?"

"It's not basic if I don't get it," Angel mumbles around the joint. Smoke leaks from his nostrils as he talks—a party trick he learned last summer and won't stop doing. "It's like... my brain's a browser with twelve tabs open and one's always buffering."

The streetlamp buzzes overhead. Somewhere, a car alarm starts wailing then cuts off abruptly.

Obinai studies Angel—the way his knee won't stop bouncing, how his eyes dart to his hands as he talks. Something's off.

"You'll get it," Obinai says, quieter now. "Just gotta find your angle."

Angel's shoulders tense. "Pun intended?"

"Never."

"Mhm. Even so, I'm good at math," Angel mutters. He takes a sharp pull, holds it just a beat too long before exhaling. "Just... not great yet." The waver in his voice betrays him, and he immediately covers with an exaggerated shrug that makes his hoodie ride up.

Darren plucks the joint from Angel's fingers with a flourish, grinning around the exhale. "Yeah, yeah, our future scholar over here." He blows smoke directly into Angel's face, laughing when he swats at it like an annoyed cat.

Obinai stays quiet, but his mind races. Darren's all surface—charm like cheap cologne, never digs deeper than the first layer. But Angel? He watches as Angel picks at a loose thread on his sleeve, shoulders hunched. He's got that look again. Like he's one wrong word away from either screaming or crumbling.

The wind shifts, carrying the distant wail of a police siren. Angel tenses automatically before forcing himself to relax.

"So," he says, "Jenna still giving you the cold shoulder?"

Darren groans, flopping backward onto the bench with enough force to make it creak. "Bro, it's not even cold shoulder territory anymore. It's full-on arctic tundra." He drags a hand down his face. "Tried talking to her after chem and she literally walked into a locker to avoid me."

Angel barks a laugh, nearly choking on his own spit. "Holy shit. That's pathetic."

"Strategic retreat!" Darren insists, pointing at Angel with the joint. Embers scatter. "I'm recalibrating my approach. Like—like a soldier."

Obinai finally cracks, a quiet snort escaping. "A soldier wouldn't get ghosted because he sent too many memes."

"Fuck you, Obi, memes are valid courtship rituals—"

Angel leans forward, elbows on knees, hair falling into his face again. "Or maybe," he interrupts, voice dripping with faux sweetness, "you could, I dunno... talk to her? Like a person?"

Darren gasps, clutching his chest. "You want me to communicate? What am I, a therapist?"

The banter continues, easy and familiar, but Obinai's attention snags on the way Angel's fingers still haven't stopped moving—tapping rhythms on his thighs...

Is it that bad...

A car backfires somewhere nearby. Angel jumps a little, then covers it by fake-stretching.

Darren doesn't notice. He's too busy dramatically lamenting his love life, waving the joint like a conductor's baton. "—and then she liked my story but didn't reply to my text? Mixed signals, man! War crimes!"

He always does this, Obinai thinks, watching Darren with a mix of amusement and mild exasperation. Turns every loss into some kind of joke, like it's all part of his grand plan. Must be nice, not taking life so damn seriously.

Darren shifts his weight on the bench, flicking the butt of the joint into the dirt and grinding it under his heel. He leans back again. "Speaking of persistence…" His eyes gleam as he turns toward Obinai, his smirk widening. "How 'bout the great mystery of our time—Obi here grinding for that chem test like his life depended on it, only to pull a fucking C?" He whistles low. "Now that's some X-Files shit."

Obinai groans, dragging his hands down his face hard enough to stretch the skin. Of course. Here we fucking go. "Jeez, let it die already—"

"No no no," Angel cuts in, suddenly animated, leaning forward so fast his hair whips across his face again. He blows it away with an exaggerated puff. "This is legit paranormal activity. Like, where does all that effort go? Does it get sucked into some academic black hole? Do the chemistry gods sacrifice it to the almighty curve?"

Obinai's jaw tightens. They don't get it. They never fucking get it. Maybe only I will actually know how much I was trying. He forces a smirk, crossing his arms. "It goes into surviving Patterson's seven-page study guides from hell. You try memorizing that shit while she breathes down your neck like a goddamn dementor."

Darren clutches his chest, gasping. "Buddy. My guy." He leans in, stage-whispering: "Did you just... try? Like, unironically?"

A car honks three streets over. The sound hangs in the air like a punctuation mark.

Obinai rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Fuck off."

"Aw, don't pout," Angel teases, kicking Obinai's sneaker lightly. "We're just saying—maybe the real Nurikabe isn't that wall downtown. Maybe it's whatever force field keeps you at a solid C."

Darren chuckles. "Shit, add it to the list: Loch Ness, Bigfoot, and Obinai's GPA."

Obinai wants to stay mad. Really does. But the way Angel's grinning—all snaggletooth and mischief—and Darren's doing that thing where he wheezes when he laughs too hard...

"I hate you both," he mutters, but there's no heat behind it.

"But hey, a C's still passing," Obinai counters, flicking a pebble at Darren's shin. It bounces off with a satisfying tink. "Which is more than I can say for you chuckleheads." He jerks his chin at Angel. "Pretty sure you spent that test drawing smut in the margins."

Angel gasps. "They were anatomical diagrams," he protests, but he's already cracking up.

Darren wipes imaginary tears from his eyes. "King of C's! Bow before His Mediocrity!" He attempts a half-assed bow from the bench, nearly toppling into Angel's lap.

The laughter dies naturally, fading into the hum of distant traffic.

Angel's smile slips first. He stares at his scuffed sneakers, suddenly serious. "You guys ever think about... y'know. The Wall?"

A beat. The air shifts.

Darren stretches, cracking his neck. "Nurikabe? Yeah, saw some fucked-up video a few nights ago." He mimics a camera with his fingers. "News crew got shut down mid-broadcast. Like, dudes in suits just... poof." He snaps his fingers. "Gone."

Obinai's stomach twists. He's seen those clips too—grainy footage of reporters mid-sentence, then static. Always static.

Angel picks at a loose thread on his jeans. "They said there's tremors. And people... vanishing." His voice drops. "Not just leaving. Vanishing."

The streetlight above them buzzes, flickering like a dying heartbeat.

Obinai leans forward, elbows on knees. "Think about it—that thing's what, 10 miles high? No seams, no doors, no nothing." His hands sketch the shape in the air. "How does something like that just exist?"

Darren shrugs. "Secret government project? Alien landing strip? Who the hell knows, man." He chuckles. "Maybe it's just one of those things we'll never figure out." He glances sideways at Obinai with a sly grin. "Or maybe Obinai knows and he's just not telling us."

Obinai snorts, rolling his eyes as he nudges Darren with his elbow. "Very funny. Like I'd be in on some top-secret government conspiracy." He shakes his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "If I knew, I'd be using that knowledge to ace Ms. Patterson's tests. Not nearly failing like some schmuck."

Angel laughs, leaning back on his hands. "Fair point. Though, honestly, with the way things are going, that wall could be anything. Hell, maybe it's a portal to another dimension." He shivers theatrically, his shoulders hunched. "Or… a giant alien ant farm."

Darren barks out a laugh, pointing at Angel. "Yeah, and those ants are probably smarter than half the people we know. Watch, they're just waiting for the right moment to take over."

"Great," Obinai mutters, shaking his head with mock seriousness. "First ants, then Patterson's next pop quiz. My life keeps getting better."

Darren snorts, shaking his head. "But seriously, an ant farm? What made you come up with that, Angel?"

Angel shrugs lazily he shoulder slumping a bit. "Hey, stranger things have happened. You've seen those documentaries about weird animal experiments, right? Why not a giant alien ant farm? Makes about as much sense as a wall stretching to infinity."

The group chuckles, the sound fading into a comfortable silence. The distant hum of crickets fills the pause, mingling with the faint buzz of a nearby streetlamp...

Angel shifts uncomfortably, his fingers twitching slightly as he stares at the ground. The wind kicks up, sending a plastic bag skittering across the pavement. When he finally speaks, his voice is almost too quiet.

"So... weird question." A pause. The streetlight above them buzzes. "You guys seen Jasmine lately?"

Jasmine.

Angel's shadow, his silent little sister with those big dark eyes that always saw too much. The girl who'd sit cross-legged on Darren's couch, sketching in her notebook while they played video games, her tongue poking out in concentration.

Darren's usual smirk dies mid-breath. "What?" His knee stops bouncing. "No. Why?"

Angel's throat works. He stares at the cracked sidewalk between his sneakers like it holds answers. "She's... one of them. The ones who vanished after Tuesday's quake."

The words hang there, ugly and impossible.

"Bullshit." The denial tears out of Obinai before he can stop it. "She was just—" His brain scrambles for the last memory. Jasmine handing him a juice box two weeks ago, her small fingers brushing his as she mumbled "It's the good kind" before scurrying back to Angel's side.

Darren's on his feet now, pacing like a caged animal. "Hold the fuck up. Your sister? Your sister is on the missing list?" His voice cracks. "Why didn't you—"

"You think I wanted to say it out loud?!" Angel snaps, finally looking up. His eyes are red-rimmed, furious. "Like saying it makes it real? Like I didn't check every fucking place she could be—her school, the library, that stupid cat café she loved—"

A car alarm wails in the distance. The sound scrapes against Obinai's nerves.

"Her stuff's still there," Angel continues. "Her sketchbook. Her favorite hoodie. Her—her meds, dude. She wouldn't just..." His hands fist in his hair. "She wouldn't."

Obinai's mouth tastes like copper. He realizes he's bitten his cheek. Jasmine. Quiet, watchful Jasmine who always remembered everyone's coffee orders. Gone like she was never—

Angel's fingers dig into the nape of his neck like he's trying to pry out the memory.

"They came right after the quake," he says. "Three a.m. and there's fucking knocking—not even the doorbell, just this thud-thud-thud like they were gonna break it down."

Obinai's stomach drops. This isn't happening. This can't be—

Darren stops mid-pace, sneakers screeching on pavement. "Who the fuck knocks like that?"

"Guys in suits," Angel continues, staring at his shaking hands. "Not like... not like normal suits. Wrong suits. Too crisp. And their shades—" He makes a vague gesture toward his eyes. —"at night, man."

A cold breeze slithers down Obinai's spine.

"What'd they say?" he demands, leaning forward.

Angel's laugh is hollow. "'Classified.' 'Relocated.' Like Jasmine's some fucking file they moved to a different cabinet." His fingers twist in his hoodie strings, pulling them taut. "And my parents—" His voice cracks. "They just... nodded. Like it made sense."

Darren kicks the bench. The metal clang echoes like a gunshot. "That's bullshit! Nobody just—"

"Wait." Obinai's brain snags on something. "They talked to your folks privately?"

Angel nods jerkily. "Took them in the kitchen. Five minutes tops. When they came out..." He rubs his arms like he's cold. "Mom started making tea. Dad asked if I wanted to watch the game. Like—like nothing was wrong."

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

Darren's pacing again, fingers tugging at his curls. "Okay, okay, so we're dealing with some mind-control shit now? Cool. Coolcoolcool—"

"It's gotta be Nurikabe," Obinai says suddenly. "The tremors. The suits. The missing people. It's all connected...somehow."

Angel shakes his head. "Maybe," he mutters. "They didn't get into details with me. Just kept saying they're on it and that we need to stay out of it for our own safety." He scoffs bitterly, glancing away. "It's like something out of a weird conspiracy film..."

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