11 February 2000
06:00
Sri Lanka, Small City
Dawn crept into the small city with a slow, molten glow that spread across the rooftops like liquid fire. The sky lifted from bruised purple to soft gold while the narrow streets shifted from shadow to life. Light pushed through the cracked windshield of the parked car, warming the dust that floated in the air and glinting off rusted metal.
James stirred as the first beam touched his cheek. It was the light, not the noise, that finally woke him. His breath hitched before he forced it out between clenched teeth. His body felt like it was made of torn wires and cracked bone. Pain lived in him with a familiarity that bordered on companionship. His muscles throbbed with the memory of electricity. His ribs felt tender beneath every breath. Even so, he pushed himself upright.
The world sharpened.
For the first time in nine years, colors did not appear muted. Sounds did not echo inside a fog. Every detail cut through him with impossible clarity. Dust motes floated like suspended stars. The fractured reflection in the rearview mirror sharpened until he could see each crease on his own face.
He blinked hard, steadying himself.
The city outside had already begun to awaken. Vendors lifted heavy shutters. Dogs trotted through sunlight that spilled across the street. Families moved past the car in quiet conversation. Yet none of it felt ordinary to James. His senses reached beyond the surface.
A flicker caught his attention. A subtle shimmer pulsed around a man crossing the street. It was faint, almost lost in the morning brightness. But the color revealed everything. Maroon edged with black. Wrong. When the man turned his head, his eyes reflected the light too sharply. A thin slit inside the iris gleamed like metal.
James inhaled slowly.
Vampire.
The man faded into the crowd without noticing him.
A second anomaly appeared near a fruit stall. A boy lingered in the shade, glancing around with anxious, fractured movements. James watched him step into an alley. The moment sunlight thinned, the boy's form rippled. Bones shortened. Hair shifted shade. Skin tone changed as though painted by shadows.
He stepped back out as someone entirely new.
A shapeshifter. James had not seen one since childhood. The sight pierced him with memories of training fields, sunlight on stone, and Tiffany's laughter drifting on warm air.
His Seraphic core pulsed. A surge of power rose inside him, bright and dizzying. He closed his eyes, grounding himself with slow breath until the intensity leveled out. When he opened them again, the world looked even sharper.
Across the street, a woman adjusted her shawl. Her shadow stretched in the wrong direction, bending toward a darker corner instead of away from it. Moments later, it snapped back into place.
A mimic spirit riding within her.
It was everywhere. Hidden beneath ordinary life. Perhaps it had always been there, and captivity had stripped him of the ability to perceive it. Or perhaps the world had grown stranger in his absence.
James rested his hand on the scarred palm where the Via Lucis brand once burned bright. It had been scorched away to erase his identity. Yet beneath the ruined skin, a faint warmth glowed. No torture could extinguish what he was.
Christa had been right. The serum had woken him. And with it came danger, strength, and clarity.
He lifted the small scrap of paper she left him. Her handwriting, worn but familiar, cut through him like a soft blade. Her voice echoed in his thoughts. Her faith in him. Her final promise.
He folded the note and stepped out of the car.
Warm morning air wrapped around him with hints of salt and street spices. He crossed toward the old payphone leaning against a faded market wall. The booth smelled of rust and sea breeze. Its cracked glass framed the rising sun like a fractured painting.
He inserted the coins and dialed.
One ring. Two.
A voice answered, sharp and controlled.
"The Foreigner speaking. State your business."
James steadied his breath. "Christa Clark gave me your number. I am calling the favor she said you owed."
Silence followed, brittle and suspicious.
"Put her on."
James closed his eyes. "She is gone."
Another silence. Heavier.
When the voice returned, it carried something like respect.
"State your names. All of them."
"James William Lukyan."
"Where are you now, Mr Lukyan?"
"On the outskirts of the small city. Sri Lanka."
A beat of quiet.
"Find the Jaffna Railway. When you get there, look for a sign that does not belong. Follow the marks until the path ends. Ask for Gerry. Tell him I sent you."
The line disconnected.
James replaced the receiver and stepped back into the street. He approached a silver-haired vendor arranging baskets of fresh bread. Her eyes softened at the sight of him. When he asked about the road to Jaffna, she paused, studying him with an expression that hovered between pity and fear.
"You must be careful," she warned. "People vanish on that road. Soldiers stop cars for sport. Spirits linger where the fighting once burned the land. If you travel alone, travel quickly."
He thanked her and bought a loaf. Hunger tore through him when he ate. He realized how long his body had gone without real food.
The journey to Jaffna carved itself into memory. The road stretched in broken lines. Palms bent by storms swayed above rusted military checkpoints. Old bullet holes dotted metal signs like permanent ghosts. Ashen ruins appeared between thick trees, remnants of battles that had scarred the land far beyond repair.
By noon, James reached the Jaffna Railway.
The station was in chaos. Vendors shouted. Families dragged bundles across tracks. Children cried. Soldiers patrolled with tense hands resting on rifles. The noise pressed around him, but his senses pierced through it.
On a cracked wall behind a vendor stall, he saw it.
A chalk circle with a single vertical line.
A sign that did not belong.
He followed it behind the station, into quieter alleys. Another mark waited on a low water tank. Another near a pile of crates. Each symbol drew him deeper, away from the noise and into shadowed corridors.
The final symbol was carved into concrete. When he pressed his hand against it, a latch snapped. The wall shifted, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down into darkness.
He descended. The air grew cooler. At the bottom stood a steel door.
He knocked twice.
"Who is it?" a voice asked.
"The Foreigner sent me. Name is James."
Metal scraped. The door opened to reveal a large man who inspected him briefly before gesturing him inside.
The underground hideout was a labyrinth of machinery, glowing screens, and stacks of forged documents. The air smelled of ink, metal, smoke, and electricity. It hummed like a living thing.
At a central table sat a man with mismatched eyes. One steel gray. One pale green.
"You must be James Lukyan."
"I am."
"The Foreigner said you would come. Christa vouched for you. I'm Gerry."
James nodded. "She did."
The man's voice softened. "She was one of the good ones. I am sorry."
James lowered his gaze. Words felt dangerous, fragile.
"Sit," the man said. "You need a new identity. Something invisible. Something the world will not question."
James sat. "I already know the name."
"Tell me."
"William Luxon."
The man studied him with quiet appraisal. "Light. Appropriate."
"It is only a name," James replied.
The man shook his head. "Names shape what follows."
Assistants moved around him. Cameras clicked. Measurements were taken. Printers thundered. The room buzzed with the rhythm of reinvention.
Minutes later, the man slid a finished passport across the table.
Name William Luxon
Born 31 October 1973
Nationality: American
A full set of documents followed. Bank details. Permits. Licenses. Enough to support an entire fabricated life.
Gerry spoke quietly. "Christa paid for everything before she died. She said the man who came in her name would need a new beginning."
The weight of her sacrifice settled over James like a second shadow.
The man handed him a set of keys. "Two blocks east. A van is waiting. Supplies inside. Clothes. Cash. A pistol. Tell anyone who stops you that you transport sound equipment."
James took the keys and rose. "Thank you."
"One more thing."
The man leaned forward. "People like you leave trails even when you try not to. Those who broke you will come. When they do, remember something important."
James waited.
"Survival sometimes requires becoming the thing they fear you already are."
The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade.
James turned toward the exit, papers in hand, mind already shifting toward the unknown path ahead.
But before he reached the door, a metallic thud echoed from the stairwell above. Then another. Heavy. Measured. Intentional.
The man's mismatched eyes flicked upward. "James," he whispered, "you were not followed, were you?"
A cold ripple slid down James's spine as the air tightened and his senses sharpened. He knew that sound. He had heard it every day for nine years. A boot with a metal plate. Descending the stairs. Step. By step. James clenched the new passport and the documents in his hand. The past had already found him. And it was coming down the stairs.