Charlie Finch had never been one for feelings. Emotions were messy, exhausting, like trying to run when his body preferred to stay still. But today, something had shifted. It wasn't just his mother's gaze at breakfast, her eyes lingering on the grease-stained hoodie he'd worn for weeks, or the way the homeroom chair groaned under his weight, loud enough to draw every stare in the room. It wasn't even Bobby Klein's sharp snicker, a sound that cut deeper than Charlie wanted to admit. No, it was something else entirely.
It was the stairs.
After school, Charlie trudged up the short flight to the basement, each step a reminder of how much he hated them. They seemed to grow steeper every day, mocking him as his breath hitched and his thighs burned. Today, at the top, his foot slipped. His bulk pitched backward, and for one heart-stopping moment, he was sure he'd fall. He caught himself, barely, but the panic clawed at his chest. By the time he collapsed onto the couch, sweat drenched his face, his heart hammering. For the first time in years, a new feeling crept in: shame.
What if I'd fallen? he thought, staring at the basement's cracked ceiling. It's just a few steps. What kind of person can't handle that?
---
The shame lingered, heavy and unfamiliar, piling onto the weight of everything else—the sideways glances at school, the desks that pinched his sides, his parents' sighs that seemed to carry the weight of their disappointment. After class, Charlie didn't go home. The sky was bruised with clouds, promising rain, but he didn't care. He needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else.
Maplewood was a small, faded town, its streets lined with sagging houses and dreams long abandoned. Charlie's destination was a crumbling building on the outskirts, a relic of the town's better days. He came here when the world felt too loud, when he needed to escape his own head. The old factory, with its broken windows and graffiti-scarred walls, was his sanctuary.
He perched on a splintered windowsill, the wood creaking under his weight, and stared at the gray horizon. "Why is everything like this?" he muttered, his voice barely audible. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. "I hate it. All of it."
The words hung in the air, raw and heavy, but they offered no relief. Restless, Charlie slid off the sill and paced the dusty floor, the boards groaning with every step. His thoughts spiraled—anger, frustration, a loathing that turned inward.
Then the floor gave way.
A sharp crack split the air, and the rotten wood collapsed beneath him. Charlie's stomach lurched as he plummeted, jagged splinters snagging his clothes. He hit the ground hard, pain exploding in his skull, and the world went black.
---
When Charlie came to, his head throbbed like a drum. He groaned, blinking against the dim light filtering through the factory's cracked walls. "Shit," he muttered, wincing as he pushed himself up. His body ached, but nothing felt broken. How long had he been out? The room was darker now, shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink.
The factory was as ruined as ever—plaster peeling like dead skin, graffiti scrawled in faded reds and blues, and a rusted staircase twisting up to nowhere. Broken furniture littered the floor: a chair missing a leg, a table propped against a wall, and glass shards glinting faintly. But something was different.
A door.
It stood in the far corner, where Charlie was certain there'd been only a blank wall before. The door was ancient, its dark wood weathered to an almost unnatural sheen, carved with spiraling patterns that seemed to shift when he stared too long. It radiated a quiet menace, like it had been waiting for him.
Charlie's breath caught. He hauled himself to his feet, his knees protesting, the pain in his head fading to a dull ache. The door creaked open on its own, a slow, deliberate movement that sent a chill down his spine.
"What the hell…" he stammered, his voice trembling. "Hello? Anyone there?"
The silence was deafening, pressing against him like a physical force. The doorway yawned, its darkness thick and inviting, a void that seemed to hum with possibility.
Charlie glanced back at the factory. The broken floor, the shattered windows—there was no escape that way. He couldn't run, not with his body, not from whatever this was. His heart pounded, but curiosity, or maybe desperation, pushed him forward.
"Screw it," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. He took a shaky step, then another, crossing the threshold. The air shifted, cooler and heavier, like stepping into a crypt. The door groaned shut behind him, the sound echoing like a tomb sealing.
Charlie pressed on, his footsteps muffled in the dark. The passage stretched endlessly, the walls invisible but close, brushing his shoulders. Then, ahead, a light appeared.
It wasn't ordinary light. It shimmered, alive, a sphere of gold and white pulsing softly, like it had a heartbeat. It floated, weightless, casting no shadows. Charlie's breath hitched. "Whoa," he whispered, stumbling forward, drawn to it like a moth.
The light was hypnotic, warm yet alien, promising something he couldn't name. He reached out, his fingers trembling, but as they brushed the orb, it darted away, quick as a spark. "Hey!" he grunted, startled, but before he could move, the light surged forward—straight into his chest.
Fire erupted inside him. Charlie screamed, clutching at his shirt as heat seared through his veins. His skin burned, every nerve alight with an unbearable intensity. "What—what is this?!" he gasped, his voice breaking as the world around him dissolved into shadow.
Then, a change. His chest began to glow, a faint ember at first, then a blazing gold that spread to his arms, his legs, and his face. He shone like a star, radiant and impossible, casting wild shadows across the unseen walls. Outside, the factory blazed, light pouring through every crack and broken window, transforming the forgotten ruin into a beacon that pierced the night.
As quickly as it began, it stopped. The glow faded, leaving Charlie gasping, his vision swimming. His legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, the darkness swallowing him once more.